Not really a status update, but serving the same purpose
So, the other day I got kind of in a really bad mood, enough to where I actually needed to leave the house on my own without previously planning to. This is actually not a common thing with me. With no car, and no cash for the bus, my options were limited. So, I decided to go to the park, and get a little writing done.
This journal was bought for me for Christmas by K. I'd thank her here for it, but she broke our sacred code of not buying each other gifts for Christmas. So she can of course go to hell.
I rather like it, however. The lines are a little small but it encourages me to write more neatly. And every page has a little bit of neat artwork in a corner or two, and it keeps me interested in writing. It's certainly a step up from my previous couple of journals which were just badly-beaten spiral notebooks. The problem is, I'm not really sure what to call this. Previously it was just redjournal, then bluejournal. So is this busjournal? That sounds kind of lame. So maybe I'll just indicate from now on somewhere in the entry title when I've written stuff down in this.
Anyway, enough prelude, here's the first three pages of my new journal. Thanks K.
(sorry about the backdating, and a lot of the terrible grammar errors, but I'm committed to not editing myself once I've finished writing)
As I write this, I'm sitting in a park. It's always of interest to me, just how much I enjoy going to the park, especially compared with how little I actually go. If I had to say what it is that keeps me at home every day, rather than putting on shoes and walking five minutes to a really decent park uphill from my house, I'd say it's some combination of laziness, anxiety, and guilt. Those three things have become kind of a theme in my life.
I've had a lot of extra stress this week. Part of it is the fact that my dad has been home all week. Either he's been in his room, which makes me extra-quiet walking through the hall (his room is right across from mine), or worse, he tries to talk to me. I hate writing that, because it makes me sound and feel like such an asshole, wanting so badly to avoid talking to my dad. But on days like this, I just can't handle it. I can't force out pleasant conversation, I can't fake having a good day. And it makes me feel so terrible, not being able to just be content and productive for other people. It feels too much like I'm letting them down, and I'd rather just be seen at all if that's what I'm stuck feeling like.
I'm finding now, as the medication and I finally hit equilibrium, that I really, honestly do not know how to think or act like a normal person. Sometimes, I never know if I'm overreacting to certain situations, or if what I'm feeling is absolutely fine. Moreover, when I think about the life I have ahead of me, of getting up, going to school, working, meeting people, dating, being out with other people regularly and enjoying it, all the things that are generally done by people to enjoy life, and productivity, and sociality, it just makes me want to go into hiding. I really don't understand it, and by that I don't mean that it's dumb to like those things, or even necessarily that I don't want them. What I don't get is how people do those things, in some combination, every day. I don't know how, even now that the black hole in my chest is temporarily under control, I can find the willpower to get over and past all the things that I'm used to doing and not doing and begin to live life.
I feel it now, and I know it for sure: the drugs are working, and that heavy drowning feeling I had before is gone. But now all I'm left with is years worth of mistakes behind me, a long road ahead of me, and a big pile of broken thoughts sitting right here. I don't know if I'm strong enough, even now, to put them all back together again.
This journal was bought for me for Christmas by K. I'd thank her here for it, but she broke our sacred code of not buying each other gifts for Christmas. So she can of course go to hell.
I rather like it, however. The lines are a little small but it encourages me to write more neatly. And every page has a little bit of neat artwork in a corner or two, and it keeps me interested in writing. It's certainly a step up from my previous couple of journals which were just badly-beaten spiral notebooks. The problem is, I'm not really sure what to call this. Previously it was just redjournal, then bluejournal. So is this busjournal? That sounds kind of lame. So maybe I'll just indicate from now on somewhere in the entry title when I've written stuff down in this.
Anyway, enough prelude, here's the first three pages of my new journal. Thanks K.
(sorry about the backdating, and a lot of the terrible grammar errors, but I'm committed to not editing myself once I've finished writing)
As I write this, I'm sitting in a park. It's always of interest to me, just how much I enjoy going to the park, especially compared with how little I actually go. If I had to say what it is that keeps me at home every day, rather than putting on shoes and walking five minutes to a really decent park uphill from my house, I'd say it's some combination of laziness, anxiety, and guilt. Those three things have become kind of a theme in my life.
I've had a lot of extra stress this week. Part of it is the fact that my dad has been home all week. Either he's been in his room, which makes me extra-quiet walking through the hall (his room is right across from mine), or worse, he tries to talk to me. I hate writing that, because it makes me sound and feel like such an asshole, wanting so badly to avoid talking to my dad. But on days like this, I just can't handle it. I can't force out pleasant conversation, I can't fake having a good day. And it makes me feel so terrible, not being able to just be content and productive for other people. It feels too much like I'm letting them down, and I'd rather just be seen at all if that's what I'm stuck feeling like.
I'm finding now, as the medication and I finally hit equilibrium, that I really, honestly do not know how to think or act like a normal person. Sometimes, I never know if I'm overreacting to certain situations, or if what I'm feeling is absolutely fine. Moreover, when I think about the life I have ahead of me, of getting up, going to school, working, meeting people, dating, being out with other people regularly and enjoying it, all the things that are generally done by people to enjoy life, and productivity, and sociality, it just makes me want to go into hiding. I really don't understand it, and by that I don't mean that it's dumb to like those things, or even necessarily that I don't want them. What I don't get is how people do those things, in some combination, every day. I don't know how, even now that the black hole in my chest is temporarily under control, I can find the willpower to get over and past all the things that I'm used to doing and not doing and begin to live life.
I feel it now, and I know it for sure: the drugs are working, and that heavy drowning feeling I had before is gone. But now all I'm left with is years worth of mistakes behind me, a long road ahead of me, and a big pile of broken thoughts sitting right here. I don't know if I'm strong enough, even now, to put them all back together again.