new blog

If you want to read more by me, you can visit this address to my new blog site. The current site will be deleted shortly.

crazyisntsobad.wordpress.com

good-bye blog.

Today was not as bad as last night.

I was pissed at first because I had to wake up at five thirty (after going to sleep at three thirty) AM, but I ended up sleeping in the shower like I fucking love to do. Then I head to my friend Randi’s house, and we played Garage Hero or Guitar Band or whatever the fuck that game is called. Then we went to this FREE showing of Hotel For Dogs which I thought was going to suck and actually was adorable. We ended up having this epic paint fight and getting gross and messy (I had to wipe blue paint out of orifices you’ve never even heard of) and it was so much fun. I went to vbs and breathed away a panic attack and sang about Jesus and got soaked by a water balloon and it was great.

Then later I got to talk to M-Dig on the phone and I rarely get to do that so that was nice. I fell asleep a few million times and idk. An okay day.

I would like to say that I’m probably deleting this entire blog soon. Once I save every post to Word, I’m fucking deleting it. For reasons I rambled about last post (no one REALLY wants to read depressive shit no matter how much they care … they get freaked or offended or feel awkward and it’s a big mess) … plus, I mean, it’s just inappropriate. I think sometimes I forget that this website is not my journal (which I’ve been neglecting), I forget that it’s not personal and private and then, what, I expect people to comment? I mean, they say they will and they say they love me and all that shit, but I wouldn’t let them read my journal, would I? So why am I letting them read this?

This blog used to be fun. Back when I couldn’t pinpoint my dp to a name, even when I didn’t use the term “autopilot”, this blog was fun. I could drift away and let my fingers type and post pictures of attractive celebrities. Whatever. Those days are gone along with the girl who wrote in them and if you don’t like it then you can fucking suck it. Because … nevermind. I’m not explaining myself.

This will be the last post. It’s been an okay run. Thanks for being there .. M-Dig, Marina, Michelle, Liz, Evie, Cocoa, Random Jesus Freaks, some chick named Rachel, Adam, my creeper parents, people from dpselfhelp, StevenErnest (I’m sure), Beef, Alexis, Holly … whoever whatever. Thanks but bye.

This website will be deleted within a few weeks. Bye!

N

PS. For old time’s sake, and since it’s the last. Here is the Sexy Man of the Day. His name is Joseph Gordon-Levitt and he is most known for  his role in 10 Things I Hate About You (with Heath Ledger and that chick from The Prince and Me) and most recently seen in 2010’s Inception … HERE HE FUCKING IS.

playing let’s pretend

oh hey guys. so it’s two in the morning and obviously everyone wants me to be really really happy right? so let’s try to be happy.

i just went on a taco run which was dumb because everyone in the car ignored me but i did get tacos so that makes my life GREAT

guess what else is nice? root beer. ohhhh yeah. root beer and my cat and the sound of the night. that’s enough to make a girl smile. that makes all the bad things in my life go away.

skype is nice to have open cuz i get to stare at his name all day. that makes me happy. and then when i’m not looking at skype, i’m looking at this depressing blog and reading all my old posts from when i was GOOD at faking happiness! but wait i’m trying tonight so okay let’s be happy.

happy happy happy. i see a plate and some white out and some pills and now that i’ve seen the pills that’s all i can think about. they’re these extra strength migraine pills (ohhh yeah) and i want to swallow about seventy two of them right now but i won’t cuz this is happy time.

i bet i’d be happy if i punched myself in the face right now. i bet that would be awesome. let’s just do that. let’s just punch myself in the face.

fuck all of you. i’m so angry.

alright. so i tried to hold in my sadness or whatever forever. that lasted about three years, which i think was pretty good for someone who puts themself out on the internet all the fucking time. so now that i’ve “come out” as a depressed skinny white shit, that’s all i ever talk about, whether it be twitter or email or skype or this motherfucking fail of a blog or whatever. and APPARENTLY that’s not good. cuz everyone might say they give a fuck but in the end, they just feel uncomfortable as fuck when i rattle on and on about my sadness. in reality, no one wants to fucking hear it. no one. they’d much rather .. admire my sadness from afar. you know. like that relative you don’t really like but you put up with and send the occasional christmas card to. they’re like, hey, i’m sorry your sad, i really am, but i’m gonna go have an awesome time with some other nice and happy and fun friends. i’ll see you later.

like, i like to have fun too. i’m not really there for all of it and my mind kinda drifts but overall it’s an okay feeling, having fun. i like to drink and smoke and fuck, i like to have sex, and i think it’s okay to be depressed and doing that stuff too. i know i’m not all here (which, oops, my bad, you guys don’t want to fucking hear about.) but the parts of me that are want to have a good time. do you think i enjoy sitting here doing nothing all fucking day? you think i like hearing the same fucked up thoughts going over and over again through my mind? do you think i enjoy dp?! fuck no! i want to get out and get wasted and be stupid and do dumb things. that is what i want to do. because i am a stereotypical fucking sixteen year old: depressed and horny. right? isn’t that right? is that what your analysis has proven? that’s all i am.

fuck all of you! god fucking damn it. i hate you. i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you.

you know what i’m gonna go do after this? have a fucking cigarette. and then i’m gonna go to sleep and wake up in four hours and go see the motherfucking hotel for dogs movie. cuz i’ve got no life. cuz i’m fucked up. cuz there is nothing to do ever in life and no point in doing it but you fucking do it anyways because otherwise you die. and when i say die i mean you kill yourself. and no offense, depersonalization, i know you really want that, but i don’t. i want a fucking chance and i want to be okay and i want to live and i want to drink and i want to smoke and i want to have sex and i want to have a job and i want to go to school and i want to fucking sleep so goodnight.

and guess what? i’m not fucking sorry for this blog. all of you assholes who read can fucking SUCK IT. you don’t have to comment, who the FUCK cares, but you can read this and know … what? that i’m fucking crazy? that i probably shouldn’t be posting this? that you’re an asshole, that you’re all fucking assholes? yes. that one. know it and feel it and fuck it until you’ve understood.

alright goodnight. fuck fuck fuck fuck.

this post is shit

Alright. So I’ve had a very trying day. I didn’t really DO anything (besides vacation bible school at night) but sit around and mope. All I do anymore is mope or have panic attacks or sit there for hours and think about dp, which sucks, but I can’t really imagine any other life. Sure, I could go and pretend to be happy, to have fun at vbs, to be giggly on the phone with friends, but I can’t actually be happy. Dp is kind of like a dementor … it just sucks out my soul.

Okay, so I don’t think I’ve been explaining dp to you guys very well. I did link to the depersonalization Wikipedia page(which three people clicked!!!) but I do want to explain it myself. Does anyone want to read about it? Hell no. But I’ll write anyways.

For me, it’s like I have one-fourth control of myself. Someone else controls the other bit. She does stuff and she talks to people and laughs and jokes and cries and thinks. And then there’s me, who listens and watches everything that the other bit does and I have no say in what happens. Because of this, I experience life like it’s a dream, I can’t mentally focus on life and I don’t know what’s happening a lot of the time. And I cannot wake up no matter what I do or how much pain I inflict(more than just “wake up” pinches, mind you).

My panic attacks come from not knowing what’s controlling my mind and body or how I can get out of … this. It’s terrifying and frustrating and it’s so much more than everything I described but I can’t explain it. I’m freaking out just writing all this. I have to keep stopping this to force air into my lungs. Everything is so strained. Life. I feel like ending it sometimes because, I mean, what the fuck, it barely exists right now anyways. I’m driving myself crazy trying to think my way out of this FUCKING HELL so why don’t I jus

Ugh. Sorry guys. You don’t want or need to hear this.

I’ve got an appointment with a psychiatrist on Friday. I  literally cannot wait until then. I don’t know how I’m going to make it. But I’ve gotta make it. Please. Somebody. Something, please let my time until Friday pass by quickly and without much pain and anxiety and sadness. I really need help.

Sorry for my psychotic ramblings. I thank you all for reading (unless you got freaked out and stopped and therefore aren’t reading this now, lol) and putting up with this even though you don’t have to. Uhm. That’s all. Bye.

N

no memory

I was going to sit down and write a blog post about my day. But I try to turn my head around and reflect on the day but I can’t because I do not remember today. I do not remember today at all.

This is another effect of my dp (depersonalization), not remembering things, since dp for me is essentially autopilot. It’s like … MY brain shuts off and sleeps while my body continues doing stuff and talking and laughing and I’m not really awake to see it all. Sometimes, though, I can wake up and watch, but I’m never really in control. It’s weird, and even telling you this is +crazy points for me, but I still wanted to blog. I literally sat here for five minutes straining to remember anything. Nada.

Whatever.

Uhm, so, I have an obsession with blue gatorade (they have these weird new purposes with Gatorade now, instead of just  flavors like they used to). As in, in the past two weeks, it’s all I’ve been drinking besides the occasional glass of obligatory milk. But seriously, I’m guzzling it down as I type and it’s one of the only physical things I can take comfort in. Which sounds dumb, and it probably is, but I just … like blue gatorade.

Oh! I remember something I did today. So, I used to write songs back in eighth and ninth grade, and I got into raps in tenth grade, but I stopped last winter. Depression and dp hit pretty bad and I was about to move and didn’t have any inspiration so I just quit. But, uhm, the other day I wrote thing song semi-about dp and semi-about … well, my struggles with dp. No one will probably want to hear it but it’s become really important to me.

Anyways, tonight I wrote the piano part for it.  I’ve never really done that with my songs before … in eighth and ninth grade I would just put the 4B (four-beat, it’s literally just four synth noises) on my electric keyboard (from ’88) and sing off-key. In tenth, I would steal hip-hop beats from incompetech.com and pretend like someone I knew made them for me (“my good buddy Kevin MacLeod!”, I’d say, pronouncing his last name wrong. “Yeah, see, we met online and I sang for him over tokbox once … the rest is history!”) and just rap along to them. So this whole writing-my-own-backround-music is seriously serious and awesome.

I’m about to break my no-more-than-six-paragraphs rule, so I’ll head out.

N

your hands need to gtfo.

Alright.

Today I went over to this old woman’s house because she invited me and she’s sweet and adorable and goes to my church and I wanted to. So she brings her grandson who is thirteen because we rode on the same bus to school together and she thinks we’ll be friends or whatever. I remember this kid from the bus and he was ridiculously offensive and creepy and wanna-be-sexual-with-a-woman and disgusting. But I can’t say no to the old lady because she’s a fucking old lady and you just can’t say no to those women.

So I’m at her house and the first two hours go by smoothly; we eat and play cards and it’s all fun. Then she wants to nap (cuz, you know, she’s old) and so she tells me and the kid to go watch tv in the basement. THE FUCKING SECOND we get down there and flip on the tv he starts asking me all these creepy questions like “What does fingering feel like?”,  “How big was your last boyfriend’s ___?”,  “How many times have you had seeeeeeex?” It was so … ugh. So I don’t answer any of them, obviously.

Then the little fuck whips out his cell phone and plays a ring tone. He goes “oh! A text! It’s my friend David. He says he’ll give me a dollar if I ask you for sex, five dollars for a hj, fifty for a bj, and A HUNDRED if we go all the way. We can split the caaaash!” I swear to Jesus, I almost sliced his head off with my pocket razor.  I get up to leave and of-fucking-course I have to walk past him to get to the door and he slaps my ass. I whip around to slap in the face and the fucker tries to grope me.

I apologize if this is awkward for anyone. I need to write somewhere.

I am so pissed off. I ran back upstairs and his grandma was all “let’s play another game” and I wasn’t about to tell this seventy-year-old woman that her grandson just fucking TOUCHED me, so I sit down and put on a battle face and fucking kick his ass at seven consecutive board and card games.

I am so fucking sick of guys thinking that they can touch me wherever they want to. It hasn’t even been one fucking week since I was LAST violated (granted, that one was a lot worse, but still) and even if I hadn’t previously been this still would have made me sick. He intruded on my personal space like three did on Friday and this is seriously the last fucking time someone fucks with me without my say (pun not intended :/). I am sick of this. SO. Fucking. Sick.

Again, sorry.

N

the disease of writer’s block

I’m looking around my room, trying desperately to find something worthwhile to blog about. I see the cat, who is licking her private areas (gross, Mo, gross). I see the piles and piles of clean clothes all on the floor, which is so completely uninteresting that I’m going to end the sentence right now. I see this piggy bank with art of San Francisco, I see a dog figure made out of scrap metal, I see a clock and a graduation gown and oh that’s lovely a black bra and flip flops and pens and cameras and holy fucking shit I don’t know what to write.

And now I have a song about Jesus in my head because today I helped out at my friend’s vacation bible school. “This is the day the Lord hath made, bla bla rejoice and be glad in it”. I always love those songs at VBS because even though I’m not a superreligious or even Christian person, the songs are always upbeat and happy and cute. They even come with complex but adorable hand motions. I was feeling really down this morning and the hundred kids pumping their fists together was just the best thing for me.

SPEAKING OF MY CAT (which, yes, I know, no one was. whatever, I’m bad at transitions), have I ever showed this blog pictures of her? No? Well, I am a crazy cat lady and therefore think that my cat understands me and talks back with her eyes and all that stuff. Maybe it’s true or maybe I’m just insane. Sometimes the cat and I will have photo shoots (this is where I lose half my readers) and I’ll tell her to look one way and she will and it’s really cute. Okay. Now that you’re all freaked out, here’s a picture of my cat.

I think I’m in a good mood today. I mean, with VBS and Rock Band and texting and the cat and sleeping and karaoke, I’ve had a pretty fucking good day. Summer sometimes gets me sad because I’m bored and have to just sit here with my thoughts, which from a few posts ago, we all know are not the best.  So to have a few good days here and there is great.

That’s all I can think up today. I apologize if this post lacked … awesomeness. 😛 Also, the post is short today because I have to text all of this to Adam and the less I write the less I have to text!

N

guilt.

In my last public post, I mentioned guilt as motivation to write a blog. I was rereading the post (because I went crazy and everyone’s comments were so fucking supportive and I needed support and you guys gave it to me and yeah.) and I saw that and reading that actually made me want to blog again. Maybe guilt isn’t the motivation, maybe motivation is motivation enough. Having a want to write and let others know what’s going on could be enough of an incentive to just write and write and not care who hates and care who helps … is this making any sense? I’m going in circles.

I’ve been sleeping a lot, lately, because I find that sleep is one of the few places I find solace. For those of you who don’t know, solace just means peace or the state of being content. My dreams are comforting sometimes, more real than life most times, and when I leave them I get really sad. In order to sleep a lot, I’ve been drinking a lot of Mt Dew and then waiting for the crash to hit. This plan is good for myself and my sanity but not really good for anyone else. My mom gets pissed that I sleep through church (she’s a pastor and wants me to go hear her preach), my friends are hurt when I forget to call them like I promised, and my cat gets hungry because I am hours late in feeding her.

That’s where the guilt comes into play again. I feel guilty for letting people/the cat down, but when I don’t let them down I have to go crazy for longer every single day. Is that selfish? Is wanting a few hours of peace more than wanting healthy relationships a bad thing? Sometimes I think it is and sometimes I find nothing wrong with it. I’d like some other opinions.

ALSO with guilt … I feel guilty about this blog in general. Not that I write in it very occasionally, but just for my readers and my friends. A lot of my friends read because they’re my friends and they care about me, but when I want/need to blog about something scary or sad or important I feel guilty for putting them through that. And I know Marina and Dig said in the comments last time that they’ll read what I have to say whether it’s sad or happy, but I still feel guilty. I have a guilt problem.

And I feel guilty even writing that last paragraph! I might delete it. Maybe not. Urg. This is confusing. >.<

N

going fucking insane.

Alright. I have no idea why I’m doing this. It could be in part because I just read Dig’s blog and it was amazing and hilarious (not being cocky even though half of it was about me) and it inspired me or it could be because I’m on a Skype call with two amazing people or it could be because I looked at my blog and felt guilty. Is guilt a good reason to write a blog? Probably not. I should want to write this blog. I should visit my dashboard every few days and just want to write. But I don’t. Honestly, I’ve gone to this website about three times since my last entry; May first. That would be ridiculous if I gave half a shit, which I don’t. Does anyone else? … no.

Why haven’t I blogged? Oh, that’s right. I have no motivation.

I have this really neat dissociative disorder called depersonalization. It’s really terrible, but one of the symptoms is lack of motivation. Looking at something and having no mental or emotional energy to get up and do it. I could be wide afuckingwake, have just drank six Mt Dews, whatever, and I’ll stare at the computer and think of blogging and then go and throw up. Actually, I’d think about throwing up but not be motivated to do that either.

But no one wants to read about that, do they?

No. What you probably want to hear is how content I am right now, which I actually am. Dig is letting me use her laptop while she sleeps, and I’m stealing a lot of her amazing music off of iTunes. This girl has wonderful taste. I’ve found about sixty songs that make my heart smile, and I’m only to the C’s.

God. You don’t care. Nothing is interesting.

I stare at the computer and I am seeing the computer, but at the same time I have no idea what a computer is or even where are the keys are or what they mean or what language I’m writing in or even what a language is, and what are the hands moving, whose hands are they that are typing, how do they know to type, how are they even typing when there is nothing controlling them, what are hands anyways and how does one control them, who is one and where is this person, what is a person, I don’t understand anything.

I cannot get out from behind this fucking glass wall that separates me from everything. It is seriously the most awful thing. I don’t even know what reality feels like. What is it like. Can you smell things? I can smell things sometimes but I’m not really smelling them because it’s not really me. My brain is about three fourths someone elses and one fourth mine and the fourth that is mine is not even mine because I’m so trying to concentrate on getting the three fourths back or trying to make the one fourth more whole but there is something blocking it that I can’t get around. I can see things but I can’t really see them. I see through things. I have to blink a lot and things are still not REAL. FUCK. Fuck! I can’t live like this much longer.

I asked my mom to call a psych a few weeks ago and she said she would. But she didn’t. I thought I was going to get help and I was feeling semi-relieved but now I am about 92374918273918273 times more worried that she will continue to forget. She doesn’t understand the PERPETUAL HELL that is my life. I am not being dramatic and I am not being angsty I just can’t get the fuck out of here. It’s a fucking dream and I cannot wake up. fuck. fuck. FUCK.

This was a bad idea. I’m really sorry. You don’t have to comment if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if reading this made you uncomfortable.

I’ll probably make a new blog for these feelings. Ugh.

N

f-bombs. ftw.

Poor grammar, especially when typing (spelling too), really fucking pisses me off. Especially when people do it on purpose. “Wat”, “Dat”, “Da” are the most basic. “2maro”. Shit like that. So annoying. I’m also getting really fed up with adding “z” or “zo” to words. It’s stupid. People think it makes them sound cute or funny or that fake-girly-stupid, and I’m sick of it.

I just watched The Breakfast Club, and whenever I watch that movie, I get in a sour mood. I hate how that scumbag is such a bitch to prissy Claire, and yet they hook up in a broom closet just the same. I hate that the athlete only realizes his “like” for the emo chick when she gets a makeover. I hate it that they all stick the nerd with finishing the assignment, and he nicely agrees and writes an amazing piece. It’s all so fucking cliche. Cheesy bullshit. I get that it was the 80s and it’s a fucking John Hughes flick, but I wish every movie wasn’t so god damn predictable.

I wish people who don’t give a shit about you wouldn’t lie and pretend like they do. For so long, you can go thinking someone cares about you, only to have that vanish in a blink. If someone has a problem with you, they should come out and fucking say it. To your face, right away. If the relationship is worth it, you can overcome it. If not, fuck it. That’s a lot of time not wasted, hearts not broken, and voices not lost from screaming at one another.

I also think that when you’ve got someone in your life that is a pain; that gives you shit, makes you feel bad; someone you don’t get along with, you should be able to leave them. You should have the freedom to walk away. For kids it’s difficult because you’re stuck in that one fucking house (or two, depending on your situation. *raises hand*) for eighteen years. You don’t have the choice to get up and walk away. And if it’s a friend, well, what if you don’t have any other friends? What are you supposed to do then? Some people can’t handle solitude. I’m among them.

I’m in a terrible mood because of that fucking movie. Remind me never to watch it again.

I ALSO reallllllllllly hate those pricks who think they’re funny shit. They make perverted and derogatory jokes. Sometimes racist jokes. They insult other people, trying to get a laugh or a rise out of them, but really, the only thing they get is hate directed towards them. Why do they do that? I’ve never understood that whole “they’re mean to make themselves feel better” thing. I know that when I’m mean to someone or do something hurtful, I’m in deep regret for days, sometimes weeks, depending. I wouldn’t fucking feel better making some joke about blacks or asians or talking about “fucking some ho”. I hate sexism and I hate racism and I hate homophobia and I hate the assholes who get away with all that without scratches in their eyes and bruises on their faces.

Fuckers.