Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Confession Number Sixty-Two

I must confess...

...that I can't keep track of who I am. Which sounds like the first line of a really terrible, warbling emo song, I know.

I think it's just stress, I think it's just nerves. Brush it off, you know?


I was flipping idly through some of the old graphics I have saved, and one said, "Be open to whatever comes next," and I thought, "That's good advice. Optimistic, you know? American."

And then two days later I read a callous tabloid article about Natasha Richardson's sudden death, and I think about her poor husband and her poor sons and "next" seems pretty damn terrible. "Next" kind of makes me want to cry.


My days are running together, and the weird thing is that there's nothing wrong. I have great friends, I'm doing decent in school despite my complaining, home is as alright as I can expect it to be.

I don't know what's wrong. No, that's a lie, I do know what's wrong, and it's that I'm selfish and I'm hypocritical and there are a big handful of things I hate about myself but refuse to deal with. I get a horrible squelchy feeling sometimes, inexplicably, at inappropriate times. I need someone to confide in, but I'd refuse to even if given the opportunity. I'm worried about my future, I'm worried about my body and my brain and my talent and my ability to stave off a breakdown.

I walked outside last night and stood there, breathing in and out for a full five minutes, staring up at an absolutely beautiful sky, and only felt anxiety.

I can't seem to enjoy fresh air anymore, and it's kind of freaking me out.


/end nonsensical emo-vomit.