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No.

Today I'm saying no.

I've tried being nice and it doesn't get me anywhere. So this is the last of it.

I do not want your help.

I have enough people doing that already and if they can't help me then I'm sure you can't, so please stop trying.

I'm not reading the links you sent me. I know what those websites say and they are useless to me.

If you think I'm a danger to myself, you can go run to my parents or something. The most they can do is send me to the hospital again and honestly that wasn't so bad.

I have enough to deal with without you asking me to make spur of the moment decisions or play mind games or listen to your frequent sighs and dramatic way of hanging up over little things. I'm tired of people in general but I'm especially tired of that.

How much drama do you need in your life to make it feel enough like a movie or a book to satisfy you?

I Hope My Heart Goes First

Okay, it's high time I was actually honest with someone. I'm sick of all the bullshit I have to deal with every single day and I'm dead tired of having to wake up in the morning and go to hell. Where is hell? My mind when I'm not asleep.

I don't really live, I just go through the motions. The only times I feel truly alive are when I'm in pain, very harsh pain, not necessarily physical or emotional. Everyone around me walk by completely set on their goal and destination. Nobody can see when you're dying right in front of them.

I don't know what went down in the science hall today but there was a giant mob in front of it and no one could go in. I heard someone got stabbed, then I heard someone got chemical burns and pulled the shower, then I heard someone got shot. I really doubt anyone was shot, but I still don't know what happened and it gave me a void again. I was practically hyperventilating, clutching my arm in hopes of calming down, not that it really helped. I was trying not to cry, or maybe trying not to scream.

How are people so blind to emotions? How can they not sense it? Your eyes look totally empty most days and other days they fill up with desperate disbelief. No one notices and no one cares except you. You can see heartbreak and pain and sadness and feel it like it's your own. When people laugh at the sad things it bites you, hard enough to snap bones. You feel like you're dying, and you realize that you are. This isn't all some stupid menagerie you made up in your head. You spent a week in the hospital, you've got scars, you've got stained tissues and secrets in boxes and papers that tell the story and it's true, it's real. I don't get to write the world around me and it ends up being as unkind and bitter as it possibly can be. People hate each other and it doesn't matter how much I explain, because no one will set aside their personal reservations to listen, to feel and become me for even the minute it takes for me to give a vague idea of what happened. I have tried too many times.

This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do and it's as simple as go to school, sit through classes and leave. I dread lectures and readings, I dread alone time with myself as much as time spent with the people who don't realize that the type of person they mock, that person they say they'll never understand, you'd have to be crazy to think that, that is me. And I don't think anyone will figure it out until I'm dead.

I'm done trying to explain my feelings to other people because all I get in return is bullshit of "Oh, I can totally relate" when it's obvious they can't. I've never known anyone or even heard of anyone whose mood swings range between empty and robotic to aching with disillusionment. I guess I just can't handle growing up. It's discovering that everything is so much worse, so much harder to face than I believed when I was younger. Sure, things weren't simple then, they were still bad, but I didn't understand why, and now in high school everyone takes rudeness, hatred and heartbreak for granted. The splitting up of friends and girlfriends is as commonplace as homework. People get disaffected and stop caring altogether about everything. No one notices anymore, no one notices or cares or fucking feels anything, no one gives a damn. I can't handle this, I can't take everyone else's emotions for them when I can't even take my own and it just goes in a cycle over and over of me being sick of the situation, trying not to care, getting stabbed in the heart and twisting the knife, realizing I can't stop feeling, trying to stop feeling again anyway and WHY am I so goddamn stupid? Why do I have to be so idiotically complicated, why do I fall so easily? Why am I always in love, why do I have such mixed up emotions and why can't I just STOP EVERYTHING.

Close

I just feel nothing.

Run, Hide

I used to think I would never have absolutely nothing to say. I'm a writer, words are everything. But now the words are other people's stories, and I can write them, but there's nothing to say for me.

Except that I'm running out of time before I lose my mind and I haven't got anywhere to run to.
Do you ever see someone and your brain freezes up and you can't think anything but their name, if that much at all, and your throat closes up and you feel like you're surrounded by ice and you wish you could turn invisible, or just melt into the ground?

This morning. I've been feeling it all day.

I don't know if she hates me, but she might as well. We had so much...

And now..
And all the things she said re still right there, immediately at the front of my mind. They aren't even in her voice anymore, they're in mine, and she knows, doesn't she, that she made me feel like complete crap and all...

And it's horrible, it's so horrible because... Because I'm not angry. I'm fucking overwhelmed, but I don't even know with what. But it's all so much. Can't she see that? Doesn't she realize that when I see her I go blank and empty and frozen? Does she feel anything when she looks at me?

I need some fucking help.

Bad Actors with Bad Habits

I'm just a silly girl who lies.

A silly girl who daydreams about drama, about what her own life could be like if she broke the cycle that she's so stuck in.

A silly girl who listens to singers like they're all that matters. Who waits on days that slightly more interesting things happen because they're the closest she gets to change, who holds onto the next few weeks like they're her life.

The girl who everyone leaves. Texas, South Carolina, Tennessee, Maryland, England, Arizona. She falls behind and sits in her big, empty house, wondering if it will ever be full enough for her to live in.

The girl who fractures so easily, so oversensitive, because she's already broken. She was born broken, and no one has fixed her. People come and go who hold her together like glue, but the glue flakes away after a time, and it never sticks in the right place.

The girl who carries everything in her eyes. The girl who always wants to cry, who only a word will set off. The tiniest concern brings her back to reality, and she chokes at the thought of her own thoughts.

The girl who always ends up leaving people who really care. She hides from their concern, lies away her own problems. She won't want to trouble you with her silly-girl issues. She'll tell you she's fine. But she isn't, and she hasn't been for a while now.

She's got this hole in her, in her... heart? Her soul? She needs someone for it. It was her sister, her sister until she went away, and then things got very, very dark. She clung to her friends, and they almost filled it. She made another friend, someone who wanted someone closer. And she needed that friend so badly that she ended up screwing everything up with her damned soul dependency.

She's a real idiot. She always sits down to do her work and then stares at the problems she has to solve and doesn't know how to work out the numbers. She gives up, and when they find out, she lies, she blames it on anyone else she can find to blame. She doesn't know what the hell she wants, about anything. Attention? Normalcy? She goes back and forth between the two.

And then things got dark again. She's got nothing to fill the hole anymore, and now she worries that even her sister, coming back, won't be able to fill it.

And goddamn it, we ran in the sprinklers and carved initials in trees, we stayed out too late and freaked out our parents, we laughed too much and talked too much and talked about too much and to little and everything in the fucking world, how the hell, with my stupid emptiness, was I supposed to not fill it with her? What was I supposed to do? Not call? Ever? Or call all the time? Was I supposed to wait for something else?

And for fuck's sake I have been waiting for my whole life for someone who makes everything make sense and no one is ever, ever going to do that for me. because no one and nothing is ever perfect, no one can be perfect for me. and I'm always going to be stuck with this fucking hole, until someone fills it with a bullet, because I don't think I have the patience for some disease, I don't think I can live with myself for eighty years or seventy or sixty or even forty. I've done it for seventeen and I'm a terrible mindmate.

I've typed all this out so many times and gotten pissed at myself for being overdramatic and closed the laptop or shut down the computer. I don't know what I want. But I know it's sure as hell not this. I don't think I'm fixable. I've screwed up so many people's live and I'll most likely screw up a lot more.

I just can't handle it.

Automation

It's empty lately. I can't listen to sad songs and talk at the same time. I burn a little harsher and I upset a little easier. According to the psych lady, I have mild depression. Fabulous. Fabulously predictable. Maybe not with the whole complex post I have below this one, which was quite some time and many, many events ago. But I suppose I do hate on myself a lot. It's not really good for me.

I feel old. I feel like I have to disguise myself to get to school, to make myself seem something I'm pretty clearly not. It's difficult to describe, it feels like... It feels like too much at once.I know I didn't call, and maybe I should call, but it takes a serious internal effort to bring up the numbers anymore. I can't... I can't figure myself out. How the hell am I supposed to figure anything else out?

I want to say I'm sorry, but I don't know what exactly I'm apologizing for. Maybe I'm apologizing for that expression that I can't help going over my face every time I happen to catch a glance of her. I think she thinks I should get over it and move on. I'm working on it. I can wake up in the morning and feel confident and go to school fine and get through twenty minutes of tutorial and then something will happen, someone will say something and I'll think of her, and I'll think of everything that happened and I wonder if she really cares at all.

It's empty. It's overcast and everyone has some kind of hurt that they're covering up, with a new boyfriend, with a happy face, with a little extra eyeliner. It's bothersome to maintain something so superficial, but it also becomes life-threateningly important for all of them, like if they fall apart, so will everything else, because they're all standing on each other and nobody knows who's where in the pyramid, who has to stay strong and who will be the first to fall down. I know I can break harder, and I know I can try harder, but today and tonight I'm running on autopilot. I follow the rules, follow what I see and hear, and I let myself become the things that it's so easy to become, the things I don't have to try to make people think of me. I stop caring and I let things drift. There's a lot of water out here and I'm getting lost, because you can't leave a trail in it like a road and I'm starting to forget where I came from.

People keep talking to me about someday, about college, about after-college, about next year, even, and I think it all feels so far away and unattainable. All the adjectives in the world cannot describe a person, and I don't know where to start in terms of figuring myself out. I could start with my actions, but those don't match up or connect from person to person or time after time. I'm waiting on the trigger again for something, something to make a difference, something that matters.

It's empty and I have to fill it for myself.

Complex


It starts. It starts out quiet and soft, and at first you can't quite tell what it is. It's noticing things. And then, quite quickly, it begins. It starts with a question. A sarcastic one, amusingly. It starts with a thought. And then, in return, another thought: "Really? Is that really what you think?"

And you start to doubt yourself. You start to question, think about the reasons for things that you've done before. And it takes a long enough trip into figuring-yourself-out-ville to get you to yourself, to get you to seeing the parts of yourself that you maybe don't want to see, or understand. It gets confusing. Because from every point, it splits.

You know how in choose-your-own-adventure stories, they tell you to pick a, b or c, and then flip to a certain page? Or in a video game, a strategy game, picking your next move off a flashing yellow plaque in the center of the screen. "Do you really want to do this? Do you really want to go down that path?"

Well, of course you do. You don't get to pick, right? It's not a choice. You don't choose who you fall in love with, you don't choose how others percieve you or how you percieve them, or how you think of people. You don't pick. You don't get to pick, just like you can't pick your family. These things just happen.

But then that voice again. "Really? Just happen? That's horribly vague, and unsupported." So you try to explain. You try to explain yourself to yourself. "Well, that's what everyone says, right? That's what she says, so it must be true. When has she been wrong about these things?"

"But everyone is wrong sometimes."

So you keep bickering. Little fights, mostly. It doesn't feel like an identity crisis, but it doesn't feel right, either. That voice can't be your conscious; it's too caustic, too self-hating, too doubting. It's the sound of your insecurities. When an anorexic looks in the mirror, that voice is the one telling her she's fat.

You think she's pretty. She's lovely. You wish you knew her. You'd like to talk to her. She seems sweet, but still real, the crinkle of her eyes when she smiles, the way she sighs and chews the ends of her pens. And the voice says "Really? Do you really want to do this? Do you really want to like her?" And you honestly don't know what to say, because it's so harsh, so sudden, so aware of every possible consequence, when you had barely started thinking that way at all. It makes that jump for you, it doesn't give you time. You don't get time to be sane.

And then, when you really like someone. When it's deep, when it's there. You don't want to admit it. You haven't admitted it to yourself. And the voice is asking, just asking, "Well? Do you?" And you don't know, you try to think, and then yes, it's there, and the voice stops asking and starts telling. It says, "How could you? How could you let this happen? How could you do this to yourself? You knew how this would end. She'll never like you, she'll never feel that way about you. No one here will. How could you let yourself like her? How could you decide to fall in love?" But you did, you know you did. You feel so strongly like you chose it somehow, and that just makes you more ashamed. Because really, that voice, when it starts, when it's just noticing the little things, the voice is giving you an option. It's allowing you to save yourself from heartbreak, from pain, from shame, from all the stupid feelings, the cold feelings, the lingering eyes and the old, old feeling that the bottom of your stomach has dropped out and you're falling through the dark. So when it happens? "You asked for it. Look what it got you. You said yes," the voice says, when you were really too shell-shocked to say anything at all. "This is your fault. You could have said no, you could have stopped yourself."

And the voice tells you that it's all in the way you act, that it's about presentation, to wipe that dumb faceless face off your face. To smirk, to frown, to smile that little false smile, to make everyone think that you're okay. The voice says you can control it all. So if you fail, it's our fault. You chose to fail. You chose to screw it up. Screw your grades up, screw your heart up, screw your life up. Screw your mind up, you think, that's what the voice is doing.

But it's persistent. It doesn't like leaving. So it taunts you, leads you, acting nicely, bribing you in to create all these massive conspiracy theories. Your teacher really does hate you, that kid is a vampire, you like that girl, or tat one, if you talk to her, she'll hold hands with you, things could go well. And then it flips as soon as it tempts you. "Really? Do you really want to do that? Do you really want to go there?"

And you start thinking, does everyone think like this? Does everyone have this voice, this voice that hates them so much, but that seems to be such a part of them, that makes all their simple decisions and leaves them to screw up the hard ones, and only come back after you've screwed them up? And what good is that, if they do think like that? Why would anyone want to doubt themselves so thoroughly? Why would anyone want to be this way?

And you start to wonder. You wonder if you're crazy. You wonder if the voice is some other, separate you, some entirely different consciousness that lives in your head and happens to rather dislike you?

But the voice still sounds like you, sometimes. When you go on the offensive. It sounds like what you sound like when she's yelling at you. When she's telling you she can't believe how bad your grades are, how you're so inconsiderate? You start to rage inside. You don't let it out, you know what happens if you let it out: she gets worse, she lasts longer, and she accuses you of "using that tone with her." But when you're angry, your own thoughts start to sound a little like the voice. You think how she makes you sick with hate when she uses that stupid mimicking voice that sounds nothing like you. Childish. She is childish. And the voice even agrees with you on that one.
 

But you calm down. You sit down, you shut up. You think about things. Everything gets formulated. Period one, period two, period three. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. Random facts. The substitute teacher that looks just like a lizard. The spoken words to that song, the story of some girl, one verse you memorized. The sung words to another song, "Wake me up, remind me, not to feel a thing, keep the dream tight." Keep the dream as just a dream. Don't let yourself come back to it, don't dwell on thoughts of being happy, or some specific future. Don't wish like that, with so much longing. Dispassionate. Not to feel a thing. Can't feel anything. The words repeat over and over in your head like a charm. You hope it works. And when you realize what it is you're wishing for, to be totally emotionless and unfeeling, you want to die. You know it's important for you to feel, but you start to wonder why. Nothing good seems to come of it. You don't want to feel the pain. But you have a hard time remembering why you felt the happy, either. So you try to stick to empty. The voice likes empty. It doesn't have to question you as much.

But to pull off empty, you have to act full. You have to be okay. You have to seem okay, so nobody realizes it's all wrong, and it's so wrong. Not to feel a thing. Period one, period two. Losing yourself a little, getting less scared of it every time. "Really? Really?"

And I can hear the voice asking. "Do you really want to post this? Do you really want to go down that path?"
 


Man

So we were going out to dinner. I put a little effort into my appearance, and I looked, quite frankly, like a girl. And the place we were originally going to was closed, so we went to someplace fancier, not really caring that we weren't dressed for it. When we got in I noticed a girl, working behind the counter, who was particularly pretty. And we sat and had to wait for twenty minutes before we went to eat, and over that time I realized that I was staring at her, actually really checking her out, and I quit looking because I was nervous that someone would see whatever dumb expression was on my face and would realize that I kept staring at the same direction- and person...

And as we were leaving I was the first out the door, but I was right behind a guy, probably mid-thirties, who held the door open for me. And as I came to the door I went to push it, to get it for myself, but he just stood there and held it for me. And I tried to get it after, when he moved slightly out of my way, but no, he still stood there and held it open for my family too, only letting go of it for my dad. And in that moment, I was actually a bit pissed off. I felt insulted that- and this is going to sound weird- he thought I wasn't "man" enough to get the door for anyone. Which is annoying, because I do that all the time, as often as I can (and by that I mean as often as you let me, you like to open doors or something...). But I do that for people loads of times at school,  unless they're way behind me, then I sort of throw it open so they can catch it and not have to re-open it all the way...

But for some weird reason, that pissed me off a little. And I'm perfectly happy being a girl, thanks, but I'd rather open the doors myself.

Come to think of it, that's happened twice now. The first time was at school. I thanked the guy, but my voice was too loud and spiteful-sounding. Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks.