From today, trying to write down even a little bit that I can remember. I swear I have reasons for my little hiatus. No, seriously.
This is the first time in my life that I truly feel my moods are stable. Honestly, I have never felt this way in my life. I guess that sounds a little freaky when I put it in words. I'm scared, though. I'm scared of a lot of things. I'm scared it's only going to go up from here, that I'll be manic faster than I can appreciate the fact that I haven't exploded at anyone, that I handle annoyances with almost grace, the only things that put me to tears are very sad things, all of it. I want to appreciate it. Please. I am scared because I've started admitting my suspicions. And I feel way overly exposed now, embarassed. I don't like talking about it. Well, actually I talk way too much about it. But some questions, I just turn bright red and can't look you in the eyes, all I can manage is a stupid "I don't know". I'm afraid people will think I just pulled this out of the air, I didn't think it through, like people do these days. But I've been working myself up to this for so long. I am a girl of much lust. I've been thinking this, knowing how it sounded in my own ears for a long time, and always said I was just being stupid. I'm just really nervous. I don't know what I'm doing. I have trouble already doing what god set me up to do. I'm scared because I'm as psychotic as ever. I took the liberty of upping my resperidone tonight, after I went to my room and snuck around. I snuck around my own room, because every shadow, every reflection, is whispering to me, but when it's silent it drives me so crazy. I don't know what to do without my own stupid thoughts. It's very small periods in my life that I have felt safe when pulling a tshirt over my head. That I didn't check the closet, the cubberds (wtf?) and the shower when I closed and locked myself in the bathroom. I can not brush my teeth with the door open or unlocked, I am waiting for the day that my head is slammed into the sink when I lean over to spit. I will drown in the water, if I don't break my nose on the bottom of the porcelin first. Please excuse my spelling, something is seriously wrong with me these days. If I don't have my eyes alert at all seconds, in the few seconds I'm blinded pulling the shirt over my head, my throat will be slit. There's a zombie lying in my bed, up where I can't see, and I'm going to climb up their one night, half asleep, and he'll come out from under my comforter, and strangle me.
While I say all this, I am not afraid of death. I am actually at terms with life. I do not want to hurt my family though, to find my bloody corpse in my room? The one thing that's kept me from suicide all these years. I might be a little afraid of the pain, but for some reason things only hurt when someone else inflicts them on me. I should never have been given braces. What a waste of money. What with me first rotting my teeth out with my own stomach acid, and then using my braces to tear up my knuckles, when I got anxious. The clear liquid they leak, when you only break far enough down to feel the pain, and not to have to deal with all the blood. All the razor lines down my legs. It's been a long ride that I would lie straight out to people, these aren't things I talk about. I admit them once to someone, I freak out, I get very paranoid, I start denying, to them, to myself, I get so scared, and I lie. I lie to everyone. I feel like such a fucktard saying things like this, these are the people I call attention ****** and posers, whatever. Maybe I'm just bitter.
You know my angel? Of course you do, I talk about him all the time. The only person in the world that I burst waiting to talk to. That I just can't go days without, because when I think about it I will start to hyperventilate or tear up. I'm pretty pathetic, but I've come to rely on him. So very much. And I trust him so much. I tell him all the stupid mundane details of my life, but he nevers says as much. He likes who I am. He actually likes who I am, and doesn't tire of me. He always wants to see me. I tell him my problems, and he doesn't pity me. Because I don't need pity, I don't take pity well, I need somebody to smack me (figuratively) and tell me to shape up. But he's the only one who gets through the wall of dumb that surrounds my head. I show him and I tell him and sometimes I actually believe him when he calls me pretty. You know?
I like that when I type I don't say literally too much. I hate that people never understand that I mean it REALLY HAPPENS THIS WAY. And take me even less seriously when I saw literally all the time. I feel so very unprofessional. That sounded like an IStatement. That's disgusting. I am ashamed and a little mortified.
In completely undeep news, I found eleven cents waiting for my driving hour. I observed, then drove. I hit a stump. I found I am even more anxious behind the wheel than I thought. And how scary it is, the first time you back into a parking spot next to an expensive car. I thought I was going to be reduced to tears, arguing with him that I absolutely COULD NOT back up, because I would hit the car, couldn't he see? He wasn't looking properly, we were IN HIS PARKING SPOT and we were going to HIT THIS CAR I would NEVER MAKE IT into the spot next to it. Lo and be hold, I made it into the spot next to it. I stood by that he was not properly looking, and we were way too close. I did alright otherwise, I thought. Then I had class. I know, ****, right? Four and a half hours there. I spent the whole time highlighting my manuel. That I remembered! I have trouble concentrating, I don't know why. So much trouble, I lose my place, I can't answer the questions, all of it. And then that kid Jacob gave me his cigarette and I felt a lot better. But for I was walking around right after the calming effects took hold and I kept dropping my OT ticket and having to bend over in my cute skirt, with manners and dignity.
Speaking of which, I looked alright today. Black sleeveless tee, plaid skirt, black goggles. I've taken to wearing my swim goggles everywhere, on a count of I don't swim much. In a belly shirt, I would have looked amazing. You know it was good cuz I say that.
I get distracted watching my little sweeties sleep on their backs, arms in the air. Like little death monkeys, they're the cutest, eh?
Let's see, me and steve went to the park, and we went on the swings. My bottom is sunburnt, and it hurt. I still love swinging. We went to joshes, he was digging a hole. I ate a sub at the little sub shop next to the cemetary. I haven't been there since I was a little girl.
For some reason I've been extra sensitive to my Ambien or something. Maybe I'm just feeling extra cautious now (a story I will tell in the past), but it's been making me loopy. I won't tell, because it puts me out like a rock. Even if my dreams are a little out of the ordinary (a concentration camp with halle berry and hilary duff, were all my possesions were household items and barbie sized, I kept them in a spaghetti pot, and the executioner kept cutting black women up at the belly button. To reduce stress, me and halle berry would peel up our stomach skin, which had torrteruous stars cut into it like cookies, and roll them up, then roll them down. We all slept on a flowery futon. I have issues. I didn't used to dream like this. Two nights ago I had a dream me, my brother, chels, her brother were kidnapped by the mafia and trapped in this house. It took all of my witts to escape and save my brother, who yes, was helpless. I left Chelsey there, because they were her family or something stupid that made sense at the time. We ran away and hid in a bush for four days until they stopped looking for us.)
This is an absurly long entry with way too many tags. Like, the instructions say use as many as you can, but I think I may have taken it a little too far. For some reason, I am strangly proud.
I have the song It Wasn't Me by Shaggy on repeat. It makes me happy, I don't know why.