I Tried.
Really, I did. I tried so, so hard to achieve some form of normality. I still love that my room is pale pink. When summer comes back, I'll still wear my white and bright purple. I don't know if anything has so much changed as it has bobbed back to the surface.
Which I find extremely ironic, considering they put me on antidepressants. I mean, aren't those supposed to lessen the dark thoughts, not signal their return?
But I'm not depressed. I'm not melancholic. I'm thoroughly enjoying the Nine Inch Nails, the Poe, the horror movies.
I had a strange dream the other night that I got up and walked to the nook uner my stairs and carved something into the wall. When I woke up, it was there. So...odd sleepwalking. No big deal, right? I've sleepwalked before. Hell, I've even sleep-peed while sleepwalking. Just because I ended up writing something that sounds like it came out of The Exorcism of Emily Rose doesn't mean I'm fucking crazy. But both Mom and Fee, my closest friend, are on edge about it.
"I think you need to stop getting so in to this Halloween stuff," Fee tells me, "And no more horror movies."
Sounds like she's the mom, huh?
No, Mom was much more...herself.
"Well, you should probably tell Dr. A about it." And, upon learning that I had watched Saw, "I can't believe you watched that!"
It was amazing, by the way. At least in my opinion.
But the point is, I tried. I tried to push everything out of my mind. I tried to get into a mindset where I didn't think the pig mask from said movie was strangely beautiful. I tried to get into a mindset where the likes of Hannibal and Freddy and Jigsaw didn't appeal to me personally (read:sexually). Where I wasn't head-over-heels for the little feather bat at Hobby Lobby because it was So. Damn. Cute. Where I don't stop and watch the spider in the bathroom wrap up a fruit fly because I'm fascinated by it.
At one point I even tried to pretend I'm not a complete and utter kink.
But of course, it didn't work. And now I'm contending with the sea of wicked little urges I've been repressing since, oh, this time last year.
I don't mind it. Not one bit. I just wish everyone else would calm down about a stupid nightmare.
But they won't, not for a bit anyway. And that means there's pretty much only one thing to do.
Put on the Zepp Overture and try to remember the details of that kickass Saw dream I had last night.
Which I find extremely ironic, considering they put me on antidepressants. I mean, aren't those supposed to lessen the dark thoughts, not signal their return?
But I'm not depressed. I'm not melancholic. I'm thoroughly enjoying the Nine Inch Nails, the Poe, the horror movies.
I had a strange dream the other night that I got up and walked to the nook uner my stairs and carved something into the wall. When I woke up, it was there. So...odd sleepwalking. No big deal, right? I've sleepwalked before. Hell, I've even sleep-peed while sleepwalking. Just because I ended up writing something that sounds like it came out of The Exorcism of Emily Rose doesn't mean I'm fucking crazy. But both Mom and Fee, my closest friend, are on edge about it.
"I think you need to stop getting so in to this Halloween stuff," Fee tells me, "And no more horror movies."
Sounds like she's the mom, huh?
No, Mom was much more...herself.
"Well, you should probably tell Dr. A about it." And, upon learning that I had watched Saw, "I can't believe you watched that!"
It was amazing, by the way. At least in my opinion.
But the point is, I tried. I tried to push everything out of my mind. I tried to get into a mindset where I didn't think the pig mask from said movie was strangely beautiful. I tried to get into a mindset where the likes of Hannibal and Freddy and Jigsaw didn't appeal to me personally (read:sexually). Where I wasn't head-over-heels for the little feather bat at Hobby Lobby because it was So. Damn. Cute. Where I don't stop and watch the spider in the bathroom wrap up a fruit fly because I'm fascinated by it.
At one point I even tried to pretend I'm not a complete and utter kink.
But of course, it didn't work. And now I'm contending with the sea of wicked little urges I've been repressing since, oh, this time last year.
I don't mind it. Not one bit. I just wish everyone else would calm down about a stupid nightmare.
But they won't, not for a bit anyway. And that means there's pretty much only one thing to do.
Put on the Zepp Overture and try to remember the details of that kickass Saw dream I had last night.