When all this mess started, I was selfish beyond belief. It was all me me me. It was all what I wanted, you see. Which was to be ~*~normal~*~. But now that I'm as close to "normal" as I may ever well be, I see that wishing to be normal was a mistake. Normal is boring. Normal is flat, static, and did I mention boring? I'd rather be off-kilter than normal. What IS normal, anyway? Can ANYONE claim to truly be simply and nothing more than normal?


I don't know. I just know that being normal blows. I suppose you could call it "socially acceptable"...?


But yes. Selfish. Me me me. And then I began to see things in a different light, just before I left Troy. I remember that book Skin Game very well. It made me want to try new things with my cutting, and I did just that. I broke open a vein after trying one of her methods, and that was when I knew I had to go home lest I risk killing myself and having my parents have to pay for transport. It's all about the mess I'd make, and the price others would have to pay for my stupidity, you see. When you truly care about not caring for yourself, all you want to do is leave with as little mess as possible, making sure you DON'T leave your mark on the world. Simply...fade out, as it were.


I'm not sure if I've ever said it here in Facebook, but I say it plenty on livejournal. If everything I've gone through--everything I've ever BEEN--can help only ONE. PERSON., it will all have been worth it. All the tears and ripped out hair, the scars and the anguish, all of it will have been worth it. And so far I've helped quite a few people see the light at the end of the tunnel of depression, and you know what? It comes as easy to me as the ninety words per minute I can type when I'm really going for it. Right now I'm probably about sixty, max.


But yes. Now I see what God intended for me all along. THIS is the thorn in my side. THIS is my burden. But God only places heavy burdens on those strong enough to carry them. I HAVE to believe in my own strength in order to carry on, to progress. And if I DON'T--if I'm NOT progressing--I may as well be dead anyway. Does that make any sense? If my life ever spirals down into misery and despair again, and they have to ship me away to that trauma centre in New Orleans...I may as well just off myself. I've had my chance to buck up and move on; I don't need another. I don't deSERVE another.


I can't wait to get published, and to get my foot in the door of the movie industry. They can try to slam it, but I'll keep wedging myself in until it finally happens. They can't block me out forever; my talent and personality won't let them. And then, when I've got the public eye on me enough to make a difference, I could...be the example of a person with BiPolar who made it. Who overcame her problems and made something of her life. People can look at me and say, "She did it, so I can do it too." And that will be the greatest fulfillment in the world. Seriously! All I can ever remember wanting to do is help people, and Doc wrote in my letter to Troy that I am always trying to better the environment around me and my class, and that I sometimes get frustrated when no one understands that or seems to simply care.


I've been diagnosed BiPolar for over a year and a half now. It can be daunting and overwhelming at times when you're reading up on what YOU ARE and you see the term "incurable." It's not a fun thing to know. BiPolar is incurable. I can only hope to "manage it through ~*~therapy~*~ and ~*~medication~*~." I can only hope to survive and make it, it seems. I want to do MORE than survive. I want to be MORE than that, and I'm working on that right now. It may take a long time to get published, but, damn it all, it will happen, and that right soon. I have no control over it? Bull. I do too. I control my talent and use it to persuade. I have a gift with words that others dream of. And that one percent of writers who get published? Yeah. That's me. I'm in that one percent, believe it or not.



You just watch. I'll show you. And you'll be so proud of me you could just choke on it.

Does anyone ever get so sick and tired of themselves that they want to be as far away from themselves as possible? I mean, do you ever get to a point where all you can think is not that you HATE yourself, no...no, not that. Just that...like...you've been yourself for SO. LONG. that you don't WANT to be WHO YOU ARE anymore because who you are is something that is not wanted. Something that...that is...I have a bad reputation from school. Most everyone knows this. And I have some secrets that very few people know that I'd rather not be broadcasted to the world. And even then I have some secrets--some really dark secrets--that no one else knows. But don't we all?


I...I started feeling this way a while back. I rememeber it was about fifth grade, maybe? Sixth? That I was in church, sitting next to Maranatha, and I wondered what it was like to be her. Not to have her body, or be stuck in it, or none of that Freaky Friday stuff, no. Just to be her. BE someone else. I was too full of me to want to stay that way.


That's part of why I started cutting, I think. I didn't cut for attention or for any of that, no. I cut because I was too full. There was too much ME in ME and I needed to let some ME out of ME. I wanted to be empty.


And I thought about that for a while today. I was talking to Carlos about a variety of things, and so this came up into my head.







Do any of you understand any of this?

I've been in a bit of a daydream the last couple of days, except for yesterday when I was just in a snarky mood all afternoon because I was so sick and tired of answering the phone and talking to idiots. Apparently I'm an answer machine now - YAY!

But anyways - back to day dream land, just mentally piecing together my perfect house, it's fun and if I had access to a limitless amount of money - doable.

Speaking of money, I need to get some asap - I still haven't paid my new landlord the deposit on the house because the guy who took over my old house is giving me the run around - Chump face.

I also told an annoying boy to eff off the other day, and was mighty pleased with myself that I didn't put up with his ridiculous shinanigans - go me! Willpower. I have it!

Back to Day Dream Land - It's ruddy brilliant.

I saw you and wahoo!
I just had to have you for my own
And yikes, I was psyched and
My head spun around like a cyclone
And who'd have thought a girl like me
Could find a boy like you?
When I'm looking back now
I just can't believe how the time's flown
When we met, that's the day I can't forget
When we touched, never know I'd feel this much
When we kissed, it could only be described as bliss
You're the one for me undeniably, whoa
Doot da doot da doot doot da doo da doot
It's sweet and it's funny
I'm feelin so sunny from your love
Wouldn't think of quitting
Cuz so far, it's fitting like a glove
And who'd have thought a brat like me
Could find a prince like you?
You're silly and clever
And I just can't ever get enough
When I'm feelin crappy
I'm blue and unhappy
You know how to cheer me
Always want you near me
I'm flakey, I babble
I'm lousy at Scrabble
You don't care, you love me
And all the parts of me
It's light and it's breezy
Loving you is easy
You're soft and you're squishy
Your eyebrows are bushy
You're simply so dreamy
You gotta forgive me
I can't help but stare
No one could compare
When we met, that's the day I can't forget

The Unlovables are awesome.

 

For the last ten years, East Boston's Central Square has been home to the Italian Festival. This was my second year living here and to me the festival is something that blocks the street making my trek to Maverick Station even more of a hassle. Although, last year, I couldn't turn down fried oreos and missing the chance to see Frank Stallone. I don't really see it as the big deal it supposedly is around here. It's mostly carnival rides, small scale Italian celebrities and lots of food. Since the "lots of food" is mostly meat-i-fied, I can't even eat much. Dave and I joked about watching the Italian sausage eating contest this year, but as we left the house and walked past the empty festival grounds (doesn't start till 2pm), we realized we'd probably miss it being out and about the town that day and we shrugged and weren't really that disappointed. Amusingly enough, when we arrived back home, we were greeted by the sounds of a cheering crowd and a sausage eating contest in progress, but that's not what caught our attention.

"Did they just say Samantha Brown?"

And lo and behold, Samantha Brown is in Eastie, a contestant in the Italian sausage eating contest filming for the Travel Channel. It's just bizarre. Dave and I are delighted as she is one of our favorite hosts. As the crowd cheers on the local boys, Dave and I are cheering on Samantha, who unfortunately, doesn't eat more than 1 1/2 sausages. She didn't really have a chance against the professionals. Her excuse, "I"m working for the next three days." The interviewer says, "These guys are going to be in another contest tomorrow!" We all look surprised. I can't believe people do this professionally.





After the contest, we decide to try to see if we can meet Ms. Brown and after standing around believing we're being filmed in the background, we finally get our turn to shake hands and gush, but unfortunately, no photo with us because she is continually being talked to by someone else that was either part of the contest or another fan. It's still exciting to meet a celebrity in this little forgotten part of Boston. Someone you were just saying should come here to film her new weekend series. As a joke.

Life is weird.

my sister emailed me this. if you haven't seen it, it's pretty cute (though i've only seen the first act so far because i have to go to bed):

dr. horrible's sing-along blog

i just found out is only up until midnight tonight, so go watch it while you can! or if you want, later you can buy it on itunes for 4 bucks. but that seems silly.

Everything has been great lately.


Until nite falls.


How tagline does THAT sound?


Whatever. Everyday is new, and it's refreshing, and I'm loving it (bah dah daht daht dah!). But at nite, after I take my medications, everything just gets worse.


I keep having these intrusive violent thoughts about my birthday party. Like, that I get up in the morning and prick my fingers to write something on the tile floor before slitting my wrists and bleeding out. The other day there was an obituary for Jesse Brewer in the paper, saying he'd been dead six years. He died just before my birthday, and I never went to his funeral. I got a lot of flack for that, too. But yeah. So my dad mentioned it and said, "He didn't make it to twenty." And I was all D: but tried to blow it off. But now, when I try to sleep, I see that sentence in my blood somewhere on the floor and me, there, dead.


It's no fun. But it ONLY happens AFTER I take my meds. Maybe it's the anti-biotic, because I wasn't having this many before I got onto it. That makes sense, doesn't it?


So I'm a little worried about tomorrow. I don't want to break down and cry or anything for absolutely NO. REASON. That would be AWful.








Apparently people who write these sort of entries are attention whores. You know, because, if you tell anyone you cut or have suicidal thoughts, and you post it publicly, you're just asking for attention and begging for some love because you are a fucking idiot who gets off on hurting yourself over some past ~*~trauma~*~ and you just CAN'T get over it, so you post shit like this so that people will give you ~*~sympathy~*~ and give you *hugs* and little ♥s and everything. So I guess I'm an attention whore, then.