I should probably blog about thing, but I haven’t because…because I don’t know why.
I don’t want to bother people, but you all have been incredibly patient with my psycho bullshit in the past, and so that doesn’t entirely make sense.
It’s not that I don’t want to write about it, because I’ve been writing a couple of hundred words about it per day, privately.
I’d say it’s that I’m too lazy to edit, except that seems like a cop-out to avoid figuring out why I haven’t talked about this.
I think I’ll overthink why I’m not blogging about thing instead of overthinking and/or blogging about thing.
I love sudden, inexplicable nausea
anxiety + pizza = infinite pooping
Even though everything is ugly right now, a lot of the important people in my life are being nice to me. I’m starting to feel like maybe I deserve it.
All my notebook writing is groggy morning writing. It’s all show and no tell. It’s not very good—not because I’m not very good, but because I’m doing it under circumstances in which I can’t turn out anything particularly good.
I feel helpless right now.
My best friend is having relationship problems. I found out this evening that my grandmother has six months to live. I just had my first panic attack since February or March, and the person responsible doesn’t have the slightest clue what she did to me.
It feels like I can’t do anything about any of these things. All I can do is keep on trying to write and trying to exist and trying to help out where I can. I can’t fix anything that’s worth fixing. Heck, I don’t think I even know how to fix a broken toilet. But you can Google “How do I fix a toilet?” or call a plumber. Who do you call when someone is dying? You can’t Google “How do I cure late-stage, terminal cancer?”
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I’m not saying I’m hopeless. I refuse to believe (or allow it to be) that I’m having another depressive episode. I’m just saying that farting around, doodling stupid shit and pretending to cope, doesn’t feel like it’s enough any more. I’ve got to figure out how to be an adult soon, but I don’t know how I’m going to manage it when I feel like I can’t even be a decent friend or child.
I just don’t know.
Oh my GOD.
Can people just stop making other people feel bad about how they look?
It seems like everyone I know is being told, either subtly or overtly, that they are too fat or too skinny or too spotty or have too many scars or their tan lines are ugly or they have too much body hair or not enough body hair or their arms are the wrong size or their legs are the wrong size or their ass is the wrong shape or some other ludicrous thing like that, and it is stupid and ridiculous and I don’t understand the point of it.
Other people’s bodies do not affect one personally. Even if you think someone looks strange or ugly, their appearance is not hurting you and it is no excuse for you to hurt them. Nobody—regardless of race, gender, ability or disability, number of blemishes or spots or scars or amount of hair or clothing choices or amount of fat or muscle—nobody has a body that is wrong.
I’m going to fail the math subject test tomorrow.
Also, I somehow wound up walking three miles today, just from going places throughout the day. In the sticky-ass weather.