Something Wrong With Me

Well, I woke up this morning not feeling any better than I did last night. I didn't sleep well; I only fell asleep at about midnight, and only because of the two Tylenol PM pills I took (after debating taking several). I woke up repeatedly during the night, and, when I get up, finally, the first thing I see is Mom mangling some waffles which I assumed were for me (she made me some new ones, thankfully, though; they were too burned) and the first thing I hear is her nagging me about not taking shirts out of the dryer, which I was supposed to do last night, but it must have just slipped my mind when I was pacing around the kitchen in tears, choking down a popcorn cake, contemplating suicide (which made me cry more), and composing a suicide note in my head. It got entirely too long for anyone with any patience at all to read. I have too much to say before I die, so, well, I decided not to go just yet.

I have figured out that there's something wrong with me, and, really, it's the simple fact that having something "wrong with me" makes me happy. You know I laughed when I saw that the symptoms of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder fit me (just not to the extreme necessary for help or medication)? I always wanted to break a bone as a child. I LIKED having my appendix burst. Sure, it was painful, but I tolerate pain well. It felt good to have people concerned over me.

Maybe I'm Histrionic. Maybe I would give myself Munchausen's, trying to create my own victimhood. Maybe I'm really Dependent, but I think it's wrong so I've been suppressing that side of me.

I always liked to play the victim, too. I liked to be the weak one, the damsel in distress, the one with the life-threatening disease that needed to be saved, the lost child, the victim holding on just barely, the companions desperately trying to save her.

I just suppress it really well, because there's no point in letting that be what runs my life.

So, ha ha, I've got something wrong with me, too.

It makes me feel better.

Now, I'm going to go back to suppressing things, because I've learned how to do that, and it's a whole lot easier on everyone else.

Something Wrong With Me

Well, I woke up this morning not feeling any better than I did last night. I didn't sleep well; I only fell asleep at about midnight, and only because of the two Tylenol PM pills I took (after debating taking several). I woke up repeatedly during the night, and, when I get up, finally, the first thing I see is Mom mangling some waffles which I assumed were for me (she made me some new ones, thankfully, though; they were too burned) and the first thing I hear is her nagging me about not taking shirts out of the dryer, which I was supposed to do last night, but it must have just slipped my mind when I was pacing around the kitchen in tears, choking down a popcorn cake, contemplating suicide (which made me cry more), and composing a suicide note in my head. It got entirely too long for anyone with any patience at all to read. I have too much to say before I die, so, well, I decided not to go just yet.

I have figured out that there's something wrong with me, and, really, it's the simple fact that having something "wrong with me" makes me happy. You know I laughed when I saw that the symptoms of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder fit me (just not to the extreme necessary for help or medication)? I always wanted to break a bone as a child. I LIKED having my appendix burst. Sure, it was painful, but I tolerate pain well. It felt good to have people concerned over me.

Maybe I'm Histrionic. Maybe I would give myself Munchausen's, trying to create my own victimhood. Maybe I'm really Dependent, but I think it's wrong so I've been suppressing that side of me.

I always liked to play the victim, too. I liked to be the weak one, the damsel in distress, the one with the life-threatening disease that needed to be saved, the lost child, the victim holding on just barely, the companions desperately trying to save her.

I just suppress it really well, because there's no point in letting that be what runs my life.

So, ha ha, I've got something wrong with me, too.

It makes me feel better.

Now, I'm going to go back to suppressing things, because I've learned how to do that, and it's a whole lot easier on everyone else.

Victims and Music

So I feel better today. I'm still confused by Alice, confused to Hell about Alice, but, well, I feel better able to cope. I guess it's working out okay . . . Robert and I are editing the same footage, and Alice has her video and just doesn't want to join . . . I wish she would, really, because that would make everything a million times less awkward, but, well, that's her decision. It prevents her being a hypocrite, according to her logic, which I don't totally understand, either, but, well, there you go . . .

Fearing that I may have scared some people, I'm not really that messed up, here. Contemplating suicide is remarkably common among us teens. I've got some emotional baggage, but so has everybody . . . and, oddly enough, the very nature of my alleged "disorder" makes me happy simply having it. Knowing there's something wrong with me makes me feel better, ha.

It's still that victim thing. It's the wanting to be taken care of, and to be desperately loved, and shown that love, as if the end is near (because, with a victim, you never know if it is or not . . . ). It's wanting to not have to worry, and to depend on others, instead.

Yet that's a cruel way to be forever. Victims are able to manipulate people so well. They're too fragile to contradict. I care too much about the people around me, so I refuse to play victim for long-- only when I really am. Then, of course, with my sensitivity, it comes out so strong and full force that everybody scoffs at me for being a drama queen.

Yet I really need people to react to me like I'm a victim when I feel I am. It's the only way I can give myself the strength to function as myself again. It makes me strong. It saves me.

So, thanks, guys. I feel much better now.

Drama Banquet tonight . . . I'm not even sure who's all going. I hope I actually have someone to sit with this year, or something . . . that was rather sad, last year . . .

How ironic that the yearbooks come out the day after I wanted them to be out.

I have to go find some music for that movie, now. You're still welcome input, Alice, should you care for it. I refuse to deny you your say if you want it.

Speaking of music, I think this is a record for number of Evanescence songs being the music for journal entries in a row, lol . . .

Victims and Music

So I feel better today. I'm still confused by Alice, confused to Hell about Alice, but, well, I feel better able to cope. I guess it's working out okay . . . Robert and I are editing the same footage, and Alice has her video and just doesn't want to join . . . I wish she would, really, because that would make everything a million times less awkward, but, well, that's her decision. It prevents her being a hypocrite, according to her logic, which I don't totally understand, either, but, well, there you go . . .

Fearing that I may have scared some people, I'm not really that messed up, here. Contemplating suicide is remarkably common among us teens. I've got some emotional baggage, but so has everybody . . . and, oddly enough, the very nature of my alleged "disorder" makes me happy simply having it. Knowing there's something wrong with me makes me feel better, ha.

It's still that victim thing. It's the wanting to be taken care of, and to be desperately loved, and shown that love, as if the end is near (because, with a victim, you never know if it is or not . . . ). It's wanting to not have to worry, and to depend on others, instead.

Yet that's a cruel way to be forever. Victims are able to manipulate people so well. They're too fragile to contradict. I care too much about the people around me, so I refuse to play victim for long-- only when I really am. Then, of course, with my sensitivity, it comes out so strong and full force that everybody scoffs at me for being a drama queen.

Yet I really need people to react to me like I'm a victim when I feel I am. It's the only way I can give myself the strength to function as myself again. It makes me strong. It saves me.

So, thanks, guys. I feel much better now.

Drama Banquet tonight . . . I'm not even sure who's all going. I hope I actually have someone to sit with this year, or something . . . that was rather sad, last year . . .

How ironic that the yearbooks come out the day after I wanted them to be out.

I have to go find some music for that movie, now. You're still welcome input, Alice, should you care for it. I refuse to deny you your say if you want it.

Speaking of music, I think this is a record for number of Evanescence songs being the music for journal entries in a row, lol . . .

Catharsis?

Alice, I hope you're not thinking I'm insincere and a hypocrite or something. I don't honestly want you to suffer, and I don't hate you . . . but from where I stood, you hurt me, and, well, I couldn't take it-- obviously.

Plus you wouldn't believe the pressure from all sides. I'm sick of advice.

I'm sorry for what Tiffany said to you. Keeping in mind that Tiffany does not apologize, on principle, I hope you can tell (she commented one last time on the Dear Alice post) that she really doesn't want to hurt you-- she's just sensitive and protective of me. I know you guys have some enmity I don't need to touch, but, well, I know neither of you has bad intent for the other. You don't really HATE each other.

Nothing ever comes at face value, ever. Everyone has a subtext to what they say, always-- and everyone else reads something subliminally in their words and actions, and often the two aren't interpreted in parallel. I see too much in Alice's video workings, and see it as an offense to me. I fear Alice reads too much into what people say to her in anger-- or, once again, I could be reading her subtext incorrectly. I read Liz's and Kristina's entries as proselytizing and preachy, and can't tell whether they're talking to me or Alice or to both, or what they're thinking.

If we think too little and speak on passion, we go farther than we mean and we offend. If we think too much try too hard to stay unbiased, we become blurred and vague and too easily ignored.

Are problems ever really solved-- or are they just forgiven?

There's a conundrum in being a pessimistic optimistic: I assume the worst in everybody, but I can't help excusing them for it-- and I never can give up on the hope that they'll turn out okay.

Catharsis?

Alice, I hope you're not thinking I'm insincere and a hypocrite or something. I don't honestly want you to suffer, and I don't hate you . . . but from where I stood, you hurt me, and, well, I couldn't take it-- obviously.

Plus you wouldn't believe the pressure from all sides. I'm sick of advice.

I'm sorry for what Tiffany said to you. Keeping in mind that Tiffany does not apologize, on principle, I hope you can tell (she commented one last time on the Dear Alice post) that she really doesn't want to hurt you-- she's just sensitive and protective of me. I know you guys have some enmity I don't need to touch, but, well, I know neither of you has bad intent for the other. You don't really HATE each other.

Nothing ever comes at face value, ever. Everyone has a subtext to what they say, always-- and everyone else reads something subliminally in their words and actions, and often the two aren't interpreted in parallel. I see too much in Alice's video workings, and see it as an offense to me. I fear Alice reads too much into what people say to her in anger-- or, once again, I could be reading her subtext incorrectly. I read Liz's and Kristina's entries as proselytizing and preachy, and can't tell whether they're talking to me or Alice or to both, or what they're thinking.

If we think too little and speak on passion, we go farther than we mean and we offend. If we think too much try too hard to stay unbiased, we become blurred and vague and too easily ignored.

Are problems ever really solved-- or are they just forgiven?

There's a conundrum in being a pessimistic optimistic: I assume the worst in everybody, but I can't help excusing them for it-- and I never can give up on the hope that they'll turn out okay.