My brother picked me up from school today, and that made me happy. But this week was relatively shitty. Especially yesterday - yesterday’s session was fucking weird.
I guess you should know that I find the entire spectrum of human emotion…overwhelming. And every session, Dr. Miles ask me how I feel. And every answer I give can never satisfy anyone. It seems like the only thing I feel nowadays are happy, unhappy, angry or bored. There’s no more depth to it than that. It’s not like sixth grade, when I was always either content or numb. I would prefer for things to be like that - I’ve always had trouble “identifying my emotions.” Then again, who needs to “identify” their emotions? Is there any purpose? I guess I have to…it’s something I’m asked everyday, and even I’m not satisfied to say, “good.” Everytime someone asks me, “How are you?” typically one would say, “Good, and you?” Nowadays, its a question I can never sincerely answer. And it sucks, especially since yesterday when Dr. Miles told me that I was “doing worse” than I was two months ago.
I can tell with no shame that one of my greatest fears is seeing my family upset. I absolutely hate it, and it was terrible when I was in the hospital. I saw my parents everyday, and I knew they were sick and tired of driving twenty miles every day because I did something stupid. For twenty one days straight, I had to face my fear. And it sucked ass. It’s just fucking stupid.
I was angry almost all week - mostly at myself. Maybe I just have trouble accepting things. But I hate going to school with eighth graders (yes, including myself). They’re all so fucking sad, it just pisses me off. I’m not exactly supposed to be exposed to my “triggers,” but the entire thought of having to go to school and see all these people is, in itself, a massive “trigger.” I don’t do it because I don’t want to have to go to the hospital again.
I want to be at the hospital, though. I liked it there. But having to go there also means forcing my family into the state of a negative emotion, and I can’t do that. I wish I didn’t care about them so damn much. If my family hated me, it would be so much easier. Or maybe if I didn’t have a conscience.
Seeing a lot of people in eighth grade, basically, go through the same things I did in fifth and sixth grade, is ultimately pissing the shit out of me. I swear, if anyone else decides to flaunt in my face that they can hurt themself, I will fucking murder their sorry ass.
It’s probably out of jealousy, too. That they can live everyday without someone watching you as closely as I am watched, and not suspect you of crazy bullshit like that. And, I guess, jealousy that some of the have families so fucked up beyond the point of caring about eachother.
But, I guess, one difference (and sadly, I pride myself on this), is that they have a reason to be sad. I can’t say I ever had one, I just was.
Does sleepy count as an emotion? I think it should.
I should mention that my life is fucking brilliant. I honestly love my family, and there’s nothing horribly fucked up about it - my parents aren’t divorced or any crazy shit like that. So, often times, my doctors (and myself) can’t find any logical reason why I got so depressed. Like, when I OD’d on Elavil…that day was relatively mediocre. I remember thinking, “I can do it, so I just should.” I also remember praying to “God” that it would work and that I would be dead by morning. Clearly, it didn’t work. I remember how much I didn’t care that next morning when I “woke up.” I wouldn’t really call it waking up because it’s all extremely blurry. Mmm…I do remember my mom telling me to throw up, then I remember going into the shower with my clothes still on…I remember getting dressed…I remember my mom telling me my eyes were extremely dialated and my heart was going too fast…I remember telling me mom that I was okay…then I remember drinking charcoal. That was the most disgusting part. I remember having to take my clothes off in front of a lot of people and peeing. The only reason I wasn’t embarrassed, I think, is because I didn’t care? Oh, and needles. That felt good, the needles…I think I remember going into an ambulence car. Then I wake up and I’m wearing a huge diaper, and we’re in Dallas.
That might sound like a lot, but according to my family, a lot more happened. After that, I don’t think I defecated for three days, and when I did, it was completely black. Then someone asked me why I drank the charcoal.
And, to be honest, I don’t know why I did.
But, still, what the fuck.
I guess I always felt like self-mutilation was strictly my thing. I didn’t learn it from anyone - it was purely self-discovered. I didn’t know anyone else who did, and I liked that it was a completely personal experience that I didn’t have to share with anyone. But then (and it has to be after I’ve gotten out of the hospital), I go to school and all of a sudden people are so fucking depressed. It wasn’t mine anymore. I still feel like I’ve lost something huge apart of my life…
The entire thing is a huge part of my life, but it’s not exactly mine anymore. And I hate that.
But, guess what? Life doesn’t suck. Of all that shit, I’ve never believed that life sucks. I hate hearing people talk about how life sucks.
Or maybe I’m just overly ignorant.
Ooh, long entry. I just totally killed the atmosphere. Ha, ha, ha, ha.