Rhiannon
Bluelighter
**Author's Note**
I'm going to add more to this; it's nowhere near done. I just started writing it about 45 minutes ago, and it will probably come pretty regularly every two or three days.
**End Note**
I'm insane. Well, not really. But that's what I tell myself in hope of justifying my thoughts and actions. I'm not normal, either. If you read this and think, "Hey, those same things go through my head all the time!" then I feel sorry for you. This isn't supposed to be well written, just a place for my thoughts. One could say I'm writing an exceptionally long journal entry, but I'd prefer to think I'm using a manifestation of my imagination to act as myself in a play being performed in my mind. Transference. Since this will be poorly written, with no real plot, it'll be controversial, and I'm young, there's a chance you might have to read this in your English class someday. If I kill myself soon, this will be classic in 5 years. If that happens, it's extremely pathetic and I'll rue the day. Granted, I love the idea of recognition more than anything, but if this becomes famous, it will be subject to criticism and hated by countless people--well-deserving, mind you, but nonetheless, there are enough horrible things in communication arts curriculums without another whiny, depressed work finding its way in there. And what I'm writing now is exactly the type of thing I hate. Stream of consciousness, badly written, etc. But I'm in a "mood" right now, and creating might be beneficial. I'm not even going to look over this before I post it.
I feel like I'm falling. No, I feel like I fell. When something bad happens, there is that sensation of one's heart vibrating, liquefying, then crashing into one's abdominal region. There is no breathing. When that brief moment is over, all you're left with is a sinking sensation within you as the impacts of that moment come to you. I call that falling.
I'll skip the sob stories about my childhood and move straight to the status quo. My labels in a nutshell: depressed, suicidal, slightly obsessive-compulsive, and incredibly hostile. In some of these areas, I'm pretty stereotypical, but more than that, I'm the opposite of what you'd imagine.
Depression. My inner self is sad constantly, but I have mastered the art of hiding my real feelings behind a mask of what I think other people want from me. There is nothing more fascinating to me than prying into the psychological depths of people, although I'd prefer to remain inscrutable to others. The very conflict between my inner and outer self is the source of great sadness. Yes, I could simply act in accordance with my emotions, however almost no one does that, and manipulation is a fine art that proves itself invaluable in the "real world". Besides, I have a secret need for acceptance by people I admire/like. I don't care about anyone else, really, except for teachers and those who can do things for me. I don't lie to them; they just don't see all sides of me. The one thing I hate more than anything else is lying. Unrelenting honesty appeals to me on a level I can't fathom. Lying creates hatred. Intense, intense hatred. My home life depresses me as well. It's nothing too terrible; I just hate my parents and sister. When I say I hate them, I mean it. It's actual hate, not a loose adjective throw around far too much. I wish death upon all of them. Stupid people annoy me beyond comprehension. My parents are Christian fundamentalists, and my sister is retarded. Please don't immediately dislike me for hating a retard--you might pretend like there's something morally superior about you, but you'd hate her, too, if you had to live with her. Plus I'm lonely. I want to be in love with someone, and have them love me just as much. So cliché. I was in love with a guy, but I rationalized myself out of my feelings. Now there's simply a void. I think the void is where my heart was before it fell. No dull ache, just nothingness. My eyes focus on a blurry computer screen in front of me. I forgot where I was for a second. That happens when I become completely immersed in my thoughts.
I cried last night. People don't see me as a crier, but they'd be surprised. I'm thinking about when I can get the Exacto blades to slit my wrists now. I've tried to kill myself a couple times before. The wrists weren't that deep. You can barely see the scar now. I want it to be visible; a constant reminder of the depths of my pain.
I think if I really wanted to die, I'd be dead now. But there's one thing holding me back: my mind. My head and heart tell me my beliefs or lacks thereof (die-hard atheism and nothing else) are true. However, I'm the eternal skepticist. What if Christianity is true? What if there is a hell? If there is, I'm certainly going there. That's the only thing standing in my way. I hate life. I didn't ask to be here. My mother should have had an abortion instead of putting me up for adoption.
Self-mutilation is a form of art; body carving. I long to be the master.
It is snowing rather heavily outside. I woke up at six this morning, and was making my way down the stairs when I noticed the unusual stillness. Snow softens the blow of an otherwise harsh environment. It wraps the world in a soft, beautiful blanket of purity. I've always frowned upon the children that play in the snow. How can someone destroy that simple beauty? It's here for such a short time, just let it be perfect for a few days, hours, minutes. Regardless of how immoral my actions are, at heart I just want to be innocent again. Knowing that will never happen forces me into a different frame of mind, one that goes against my nature. But it's become my nature now.
Tranquility is my second greatest longing, although perhaps it is intertwined with innocence and purity. I sit in my room at night, thinking about all the places I could run to, and simulatneously thinking about all the reasons why I can't do it. Money, education...but what good are those if I'm not around to enjoy them? I won't live for very long if I remain suicidal. Eventually, the doubt will go away and I'll do it. But if I'm peaceful, I'll live and enjoy it. Jensen Beach, Florida is my utopia. Yet I'm afraid to go there for fear of disturbing the solace I find there. I'll end up living in Chicago, where the constant motion reeks of a place where no guilt could come to me.
When it comes to caring about things, I either care too much or am completely apathetic. My nature is mercurial and extreme. Unfortunately, I care about things I shouldn't and don't care about things that I should. I demand perfection from imperfection, then attempt to rationalize my way out of it. I want to be more rational than I am; and I want to be more feeling than I am. If someone tells me I'm being logical, I immediatley say something unreasonable. If someone tells me I'm being emotional, I logically inform them of 55 reasons why I am not emotional. Maybe I want balance. I was on Paxil for several months, but it did nothing for me. I don't think I have a chemical imbalance; it's purely psychological.
I'm tugging gently on my earring, looking away from the computer screen and biting my lip. I want to avoid my thoughts, and I'm expecting the ugly red wallpaper to relieve me. I'm going to get offline, and will now go sit alone in my dark room. Stay tuned for more insanity.
I'm going to add more to this; it's nowhere near done. I just started writing it about 45 minutes ago, and it will probably come pretty regularly every two or three days.
**End Note**
I'm insane. Well, not really. But that's what I tell myself in hope of justifying my thoughts and actions. I'm not normal, either. If you read this and think, "Hey, those same things go through my head all the time!" then I feel sorry for you. This isn't supposed to be well written, just a place for my thoughts. One could say I'm writing an exceptionally long journal entry, but I'd prefer to think I'm using a manifestation of my imagination to act as myself in a play being performed in my mind. Transference. Since this will be poorly written, with no real plot, it'll be controversial, and I'm young, there's a chance you might have to read this in your English class someday. If I kill myself soon, this will be classic in 5 years. If that happens, it's extremely pathetic and I'll rue the day. Granted, I love the idea of recognition more than anything, but if this becomes famous, it will be subject to criticism and hated by countless people--well-deserving, mind you, but nonetheless, there are enough horrible things in communication arts curriculums without another whiny, depressed work finding its way in there. And what I'm writing now is exactly the type of thing I hate. Stream of consciousness, badly written, etc. But I'm in a "mood" right now, and creating might be beneficial. I'm not even going to look over this before I post it.
I feel like I'm falling. No, I feel like I fell. When something bad happens, there is that sensation of one's heart vibrating, liquefying, then crashing into one's abdominal region. There is no breathing. When that brief moment is over, all you're left with is a sinking sensation within you as the impacts of that moment come to you. I call that falling.
I'll skip the sob stories about my childhood and move straight to the status quo. My labels in a nutshell: depressed, suicidal, slightly obsessive-compulsive, and incredibly hostile. In some of these areas, I'm pretty stereotypical, but more than that, I'm the opposite of what you'd imagine.
Depression. My inner self is sad constantly, but I have mastered the art of hiding my real feelings behind a mask of what I think other people want from me. There is nothing more fascinating to me than prying into the psychological depths of people, although I'd prefer to remain inscrutable to others. The very conflict between my inner and outer self is the source of great sadness. Yes, I could simply act in accordance with my emotions, however almost no one does that, and manipulation is a fine art that proves itself invaluable in the "real world". Besides, I have a secret need for acceptance by people I admire/like. I don't care about anyone else, really, except for teachers and those who can do things for me. I don't lie to them; they just don't see all sides of me. The one thing I hate more than anything else is lying. Unrelenting honesty appeals to me on a level I can't fathom. Lying creates hatred. Intense, intense hatred. My home life depresses me as well. It's nothing too terrible; I just hate my parents and sister. When I say I hate them, I mean it. It's actual hate, not a loose adjective throw around far too much. I wish death upon all of them. Stupid people annoy me beyond comprehension. My parents are Christian fundamentalists, and my sister is retarded. Please don't immediately dislike me for hating a retard--you might pretend like there's something morally superior about you, but you'd hate her, too, if you had to live with her. Plus I'm lonely. I want to be in love with someone, and have them love me just as much. So cliché. I was in love with a guy, but I rationalized myself out of my feelings. Now there's simply a void. I think the void is where my heart was before it fell. No dull ache, just nothingness. My eyes focus on a blurry computer screen in front of me. I forgot where I was for a second. That happens when I become completely immersed in my thoughts.
I cried last night. People don't see me as a crier, but they'd be surprised. I'm thinking about when I can get the Exacto blades to slit my wrists now. I've tried to kill myself a couple times before. The wrists weren't that deep. You can barely see the scar now. I want it to be visible; a constant reminder of the depths of my pain.
I think if I really wanted to die, I'd be dead now. But there's one thing holding me back: my mind. My head and heart tell me my beliefs or lacks thereof (die-hard atheism and nothing else) are true. However, I'm the eternal skepticist. What if Christianity is true? What if there is a hell? If there is, I'm certainly going there. That's the only thing standing in my way. I hate life. I didn't ask to be here. My mother should have had an abortion instead of putting me up for adoption.
Self-mutilation is a form of art; body carving. I long to be the master.
It is snowing rather heavily outside. I woke up at six this morning, and was making my way down the stairs when I noticed the unusual stillness. Snow softens the blow of an otherwise harsh environment. It wraps the world in a soft, beautiful blanket of purity. I've always frowned upon the children that play in the snow. How can someone destroy that simple beauty? It's here for such a short time, just let it be perfect for a few days, hours, minutes. Regardless of how immoral my actions are, at heart I just want to be innocent again. Knowing that will never happen forces me into a different frame of mind, one that goes against my nature. But it's become my nature now.
Tranquility is my second greatest longing, although perhaps it is intertwined with innocence and purity. I sit in my room at night, thinking about all the places I could run to, and simulatneously thinking about all the reasons why I can't do it. Money, education...but what good are those if I'm not around to enjoy them? I won't live for very long if I remain suicidal. Eventually, the doubt will go away and I'll do it. But if I'm peaceful, I'll live and enjoy it. Jensen Beach, Florida is my utopia. Yet I'm afraid to go there for fear of disturbing the solace I find there. I'll end up living in Chicago, where the constant motion reeks of a place where no guilt could come to me.
When it comes to caring about things, I either care too much or am completely apathetic. My nature is mercurial and extreme. Unfortunately, I care about things I shouldn't and don't care about things that I should. I demand perfection from imperfection, then attempt to rationalize my way out of it. I want to be more rational than I am; and I want to be more feeling than I am. If someone tells me I'm being logical, I immediatley say something unreasonable. If someone tells me I'm being emotional, I logically inform them of 55 reasons why I am not emotional. Maybe I want balance. I was on Paxil for several months, but it did nothing for me. I don't think I have a chemical imbalance; it's purely psychological.
I'm tugging gently on my earring, looking away from the computer screen and biting my lip. I want to avoid my thoughts, and I'm expecting the ugly red wallpaper to relieve me. I'm going to get offline, and will now go sit alone in my dark room. Stay tuned for more insanity.
