Back and Forth Around the Mountains
(i actually wrote this yesterday, progress!)
I have no idea where I wanna take my life anymore.
I haven’t really known who I am for awhile now. But that has to be set aside for the moment. I have to figure out where my motivation is taking me, and if it’s still there in the first place, and quantify it and figure out how to increase it. I know I’ve been pretty selfish lately. But at least I’m real. The more I think about it, the scariest thing I could do would be to fake it all the time. If people start talking about my smile and how I smile all the time, that’s when I’ll know it’s too late.
The people who kill themselves are often people whose friends and family never see it coming unless they’re looking really closely. These people work endlessly and spend so much energy to main this façade of normalcy and happiness. “She was always laughing and smiling” “He seemed to be having so much fun…” I’ve never been very successful at hiding my emotions. When there’s something wrong, people can tell. Usually. It takes energy I don’t have to spare to do anything else. The time that I walked into my psychiatrist’s office after ingesting a bottle full of Tylenol ten hours prior and told him straight faced that I had not contemplated suicide lately was one of the only exceptions and it took sooooooo much effort. But I wanted it that much. I don’t even remember being scared at all until I was in the ambulance and people were throwing emergency fits.
I want to understand the people who can hide their pain so well. I want to know. I want to help Matthew’s mom cope with the pain of losing everything. I wish I could have helped Matthew, had he allowed himself help. I think about him and his life after me more often than I feel I have the right to. But I can’t help it. I found his mom’s LJ last night and was mesmerized. She really describes seemingly mundane times in his live as separate momentous and special occasions and it heartens me to read them. You can’t see any pain at all. You could in his writing. That was the only place.
I went home this weekend and next weekend I’m going to Georgia again. I had a bad start at school. I was prescribed progesterone for my amenorrhea but it failed and almost sent me into a downward spiral. Once I started recovering from that, I got the virus of a lifetime and battled 104 degree fevers for a week. This has caused me to completely screw up my statistics course by missing a test and not turning in a paper, and I am struggling to make up time and effort in my other classes. I am seriously considering withdrawing from Statistics. I’m kind of scared, I’ve never withdrawn before. But I don’t think I can get away with a decent grade in it after such an awful start, since they refused to grant me extentions or make-ups. However, I scored ABOVE THE MEAN for once on my first Personality Psych test and I’m going to my physics professors office hours so I can get a better grade on the first homework set (since he of course, doesn’t grade things, being the super awesome leet guy that he is). Hebrew looked bleak for awhile, but I’ve been back for a week and doing the work and my understanding is coming along, I think.
I want to be less of a high-maintenance partner. I try to be, and I am very sincerely apologetic when I feel like I’m getting like that. However, I feel like the person I’m with, after a certain point, becomes aware that that is the kind of person I am and must decide if that’s something he’s willing to put up with from time to time. I sometimes feel like the fact that they can leave at any time makes it somehow less my fault. It is their choice to stay, right? I’m not making them, threatening them. If they are unhappy, they can leave, and I’ll deal with it. I remind them of this. So part of it they bring on themselves. I think I’m getting better, but I was awful when I was on the progesterone. This is even more fucked up because I never wanted anything serious in college IN THE FIRST PLACE. But here I am, in serious with Jon. Whenever I choose to do something else for the weekend, like go home and see my family, or see a friend, he gets pissy at me, accuses me of keeping him last priority, kicking him to the curb so I can fuck other people, and I don’t need that drama right now. Or ever. But come to think of it, I can do something about that. I can change my reaction. I can say, yup, you’re exactly right, and not worry about what he thinks. Because I’ve been over this over and over again with him and there’s nothing more I can say, and it happens every single time I make plans with other people. That’s something he’s going to have to come to terms with on his own, or not. And if I can’t succeed in changing my reaction, I might have to make hard decisions.
He has been fantastic in many ways. He has been a phone call away at my lowest points lately and has quickly come to whisk me away when I needed it. He lovingly makes me dinner and breakfast every weekend, worships my body at night, takes me to run errands and grocery shop, listens to me bitch and whine about school and other boys (especially when I’m drunk) and has put up with me being a completely depressive hormonal bitch with no libido. He bought me a beautiful doll for Christmas and helps me bake cakes and cookies for the chorus. He’ll watch whatever movie I bring over without complaining. I <3 him.
But he is high maintenance too…
So yes, Georgia. Spring break 08. 2 years and 130lbs later. I was suddenly hit on the bus ride home with how much I missed being down there, riding around with him in his sebring, smoking up in dingy trailers on stained lop sided couches, driving down gravelly dirt roads through the pines, singing songs about lobsters and storks and being completely nonsensical and carefree. Sleeping and waking up next to him… the only person who I actually seem to tolerate that with… Jon calls him my “husband”. He’s only my “once a year” husband. I like it like that.
I totally need this.
I wanna lose my belly before I get there but that seems impossible. I know he’ll be impressed with me regardless but it’s more of a marker for me. I’ve been struggling with it since Christmas and I’m not making a damn bit of progress. I’ve had trouble sticking to the diet to adamantly. I like food and I’d missed it and I guess break reminded me of that. But I’m also about to train to run a 10 mile race at the end of March. So maybe that will work for my belly, if nothing else. I’m going to the beach with the chorus in May and I’d like to look decent in a bathing suit for once. This means no potbelly. I’m so sick of feeling fat. Charlottesville magnifies it 100x, every ounce of it I have. I went shopping for pants on Saturday because I only had one pair and they would fall off when I walked and sometimes end up around my knees unintentionally. But it was emotionally trialing. I’m not used to tight pants, or as my mother said, “pants that fit” and my gut would roll out over the top of all the pants and make me look so disgusting. I bought one pair of 6’s and I can button them up and they fit in the leg, but my goal is to make them as baggy as my 8’s. Soon, I hope. It’s just so hard to be fat. I’m so sick and tired of it. I want to be a 4. And it’s so sick that in DC, I feel normal, average, height/weight appropriate, and here I feel obese as fuckall.
Ah, Charlottesville. Welcome home.
I have no idea where I wanna take my life anymore.
I haven’t really known who I am for awhile now. But that has to be set aside for the moment. I have to figure out where my motivation is taking me, and if it’s still there in the first place, and quantify it and figure out how to increase it. I know I’ve been pretty selfish lately. But at least I’m real. The more I think about it, the scariest thing I could do would be to fake it all the time. If people start talking about my smile and how I smile all the time, that’s when I’ll know it’s too late.
The people who kill themselves are often people whose friends and family never see it coming unless they’re looking really closely. These people work endlessly and spend so much energy to main this façade of normalcy and happiness. “She was always laughing and smiling” “He seemed to be having so much fun…” I’ve never been very successful at hiding my emotions. When there’s something wrong, people can tell. Usually. It takes energy I don’t have to spare to do anything else. The time that I walked into my psychiatrist’s office after ingesting a bottle full of Tylenol ten hours prior and told him straight faced that I had not contemplated suicide lately was one of the only exceptions and it took sooooooo much effort. But I wanted it that much. I don’t even remember being scared at all until I was in the ambulance and people were throwing emergency fits.
I want to understand the people who can hide their pain so well. I want to know. I want to help Matthew’s mom cope with the pain of losing everything. I wish I could have helped Matthew, had he allowed himself help. I think about him and his life after me more often than I feel I have the right to. But I can’t help it. I found his mom’s LJ last night and was mesmerized. She really describes seemingly mundane times in his live as separate momentous and special occasions and it heartens me to read them. You can’t see any pain at all. You could in his writing. That was the only place.
I went home this weekend and next weekend I’m going to Georgia again. I had a bad start at school. I was prescribed progesterone for my amenorrhea but it failed and almost sent me into a downward spiral. Once I started recovering from that, I got the virus of a lifetime and battled 104 degree fevers for a week. This has caused me to completely screw up my statistics course by missing a test and not turning in a paper, and I am struggling to make up time and effort in my other classes. I am seriously considering withdrawing from Statistics. I’m kind of scared, I’ve never withdrawn before. But I don’t think I can get away with a decent grade in it after such an awful start, since they refused to grant me extentions or make-ups. However, I scored ABOVE THE MEAN for once on my first Personality Psych test and I’m going to my physics professors office hours so I can get a better grade on the first homework set (since he of course, doesn’t grade things, being the super awesome leet guy that he is). Hebrew looked bleak for awhile, but I’ve been back for a week and doing the work and my understanding is coming along, I think.
I want to be less of a high-maintenance partner. I try to be, and I am very sincerely apologetic when I feel like I’m getting like that. However, I feel like the person I’m with, after a certain point, becomes aware that that is the kind of person I am and must decide if that’s something he’s willing to put up with from time to time. I sometimes feel like the fact that they can leave at any time makes it somehow less my fault. It is their choice to stay, right? I’m not making them, threatening them. If they are unhappy, they can leave, and I’ll deal with it. I remind them of this. So part of it they bring on themselves. I think I’m getting better, but I was awful when I was on the progesterone. This is even more fucked up because I never wanted anything serious in college IN THE FIRST PLACE. But here I am, in serious with Jon. Whenever I choose to do something else for the weekend, like go home and see my family, or see a friend, he gets pissy at me, accuses me of keeping him last priority, kicking him to the curb so I can fuck other people, and I don’t need that drama right now. Or ever. But come to think of it, I can do something about that. I can change my reaction. I can say, yup, you’re exactly right, and not worry about what he thinks. Because I’ve been over this over and over again with him and there’s nothing more I can say, and it happens every single time I make plans with other people. That’s something he’s going to have to come to terms with on his own, or not. And if I can’t succeed in changing my reaction, I might have to make hard decisions.
He has been fantastic in many ways. He has been a phone call away at my lowest points lately and has quickly come to whisk me away when I needed it. He lovingly makes me dinner and breakfast every weekend, worships my body at night, takes me to run errands and grocery shop, listens to me bitch and whine about school and other boys (especially when I’m drunk) and has put up with me being a completely depressive hormonal bitch with no libido. He bought me a beautiful doll for Christmas and helps me bake cakes and cookies for the chorus. He’ll watch whatever movie I bring over without complaining. I <3 him.
But he is high maintenance too…
So yes, Georgia. Spring break 08. 2 years and 130lbs later. I was suddenly hit on the bus ride home with how much I missed being down there, riding around with him in his sebring, smoking up in dingy trailers on stained lop sided couches, driving down gravelly dirt roads through the pines, singing songs about lobsters and storks and being completely nonsensical and carefree. Sleeping and waking up next to him… the only person who I actually seem to tolerate that with… Jon calls him my “husband”. He’s only my “once a year” husband. I like it like that.
I totally need this.
I wanna lose my belly before I get there but that seems impossible. I know he’ll be impressed with me regardless but it’s more of a marker for me. I’ve been struggling with it since Christmas and I’m not making a damn bit of progress. I’ve had trouble sticking to the diet to adamantly. I like food and I’d missed it and I guess break reminded me of that. But I’m also about to train to run a 10 mile race at the end of March. So maybe that will work for my belly, if nothing else. I’m going to the beach with the chorus in May and I’d like to look decent in a bathing suit for once. This means no potbelly. I’m so sick of feeling fat. Charlottesville magnifies it 100x, every ounce of it I have. I went shopping for pants on Saturday because I only had one pair and they would fall off when I walked and sometimes end up around my knees unintentionally. But it was emotionally trialing. I’m not used to tight pants, or as my mother said, “pants that fit” and my gut would roll out over the top of all the pants and make me look so disgusting. I bought one pair of 6’s and I can button them up and they fit in the leg, but my goal is to make them as baggy as my 8’s. Soon, I hope. It’s just so hard to be fat. I’m so sick and tired of it. I want to be a 4. And it’s so sick that in DC, I feel normal, average, height/weight appropriate, and here I feel obese as fuckall.
Ah, Charlottesville. Welcome home.