Late

Whew.

I didn't think test week could get much worse. Until they decided not to give us a weekend to relax--they had to post grades two hours after we all clicked "submit". And let me tell you, things were not pretty this time. I have to figure out a better system--something needs to change, or else the graduating class of 2015 is going to be one very small person short! Oh look. I made a pun. Or something. It wasn't very funny.

The next thing was an embarrassing encounter with my roommates's best friend. She has a tumblr blog online, and occasionally Steph will show me stuff the friend has posted. Well, when she did it a few days ago, I asked what the url was so I could check out what other stuff she had. Steph told me that she wasn't allowed to give it out, since it was personal.

My train of thought was, "Are you serious? It's on the internet. Nothing is personal on the internet. All right, I don't want to get you in trouble, I'll just find it myself." And five minutes later, I had. Oh, don't get me wrong, she doesn't have her name up as far as I know--but I knew a website she'd been on, and it was easy enough from there.

And I enjoyed her thoughts. I liked the pictures she posted. But I made the mistake of telling Steph what I'd done. Unbeknownst to me, she thought it her duty as a friend to tell. I've known the other girl's been peeved at me for days, but I thought it was for something else. And when I apologized for the something else, tonight, she confronted me about her blog.

It wasn't the time to argue about her definitions of private, or how I don't really understand where she's coming from--obviously, she felt her right to remain anonymous on a public forum was ignored. And that's the only important thing, I suppose. Even if I don't get it. She's pretty sensitive to stuff like that, and I'm wondering if any chance at a friendship is shot because of it. We'll see.

I'm a bit peeved at Steph, though. Way to throw that one in. Really. I mean, sure, tell her I "violated her privacy" if you think that falls under "best friend" duties. But tell me first. Give me a chance to go to her and tell her myself, apologize, whatever it takes. We're supposed to be friends too, and that was pretty shabby.

And I ended this long and not-what-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be day with yet another mistake. I made an assumption I shouldn't have--and I ended up being really embarrassed. And now I'm curled up on the couch, listening to the quiet of the house and wondering why life is so messy and disappointing sometimes.

Everything is just so much more sad when I'm so tired.

dark places

I don't write much anymore. I miss it--there's something about getting things onto paper that makes them more tangible, easier to handle and analyze. I write when my thoughts are disordered and hard to deal with, mostly--the process of finding the right words and making something unique and flowing is one of the best ways I know to get rid of the panic of dealing with it alone.

I've always loved the idea of journals. I have several--one for poetry, one for personal stories, and one that was meant to be a sketch journal. The poems haven't been added to in over a year--the stories require time to be written that I don't have. Sketching makes my life so much better, but again, time is lacking, and I'm a perfectionist when it comes to creating (not the perfectionism that requires "perfect", so much, but the kind that goes for a certain feeling, a nuance), so there are only a few pages filled.

I've gotten used to being dissatisfied when I read back through the stories I've written over the years. You see, I mostly write when I'm in pain. Exhausted. Lonely. Distressed, and trying to work out tumbling, spinning thoughts in my head. And so it's mostly a chronicle of sadness, which doesn't reflect what life is really like for me. Usually.

When I'm happy, I'm too busy living a story to find time to write it down. And that in itself is rather sad, in a way. I miss putting soul to paper, and I miss sharing. So, I suppose, what pulls it back out of me is a desperate attempt to make sense of the world again, and to restore myself a bit by creating. It makes things lighter in a very dark place.

...

I miss the turning of seasons. It seems stagnant here, as though time drags, perhaps stops, nothing to differentiate my days. There are no mornings of waking to rain and gray skies, and no chance of those magical moments where you wake up to falling snow. I used to love those mornings. They didn't happen often, at Southern, but when they did come it was the best feeling. So much promise in waking up and realizing, from the glow or slant of light or perhaps just a sense of difference that something good had happened--and then getting to dash into Bec's room, jump on her bed, and wake her up. It was the only circumstance in which I could ever get away with something like that. -grins- it's hard to be angry when you're running around the Village in pajamas and rain boots, throwing snow and laughing with people you never usually talk to.

That doesn't happen here. There are no trees that I see change from day to day--oh, I miss maple trees. That smoke-blackened bark, and the sheer brilliance of the yellow and orange against it. The closest thing here, I suppose, is the tangerine tree out back, just barely starting to lighten the solid green of the fruit. But even that is almost imperceptibly slow.

truth for once

It will be all right.

Do the best you can, and it will be enough.

This will all be worth it some day.

You're not alone in this--we're all here.

You're not alone.

Lies.

I've got to stop the spinning. Stop the fearing. The frightened, relentless circling feeling that I'm drowning; the water just hasn't hit my lungs yet.

Do you know what I think, when it gets late and I'm actually being honest with myself and not mouthing the phrases that we hope will carry us though each day?

I can't do this.
I don't even know if I want to do this.
I know I don't want to be here.
I'm tired of being motivated by fear.
I can't stand this not-really-living thing.
I disgust myself with how much time I purposely waste because studying repulses me.
I've stopped caring about learning. This isn't learning, and I'm not strong enough or smart enough to make it be.
I'm not even sure this will make me happy. Ever.
I can't see what I'm headed for anymore. I wonder if I ever did, or if I just made it up.
I don't know what happy looks like sometimes.
Home doesn't really exist anymore.
I am alone.

I am sick of trying to be cheerful. I hate this.