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Posts tagged ‘depression’

Insensitive Assholes at their Finest

WARNING: It’s rant time!

Everyone has had to deal with someone that seems to have absolutely no heart at all, whether directly, or indirectly. The jerks who laugh at things that are far from funny, things people can’t control, things that hinder every day life. You’ve either seen it, or you’ve had it happen to you. These bastards don’t understand how detrimental it is on us to be made fun of for our ailments, almost like they want to make it worse. Whether you’ve been a victim, or a witness to a victim, I’m sure most of you reading this will understand where I’m coming from, and that my frustration is justified. Here are my own personal experiences dealing with the literal shit of human society.

If you’ve been keeping up with me at all, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental illness known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a depression disorder that greatly affects our moods, but it’s not just “mood swings.” You have your manic episodes, or “happy” episodes, and your depressed episodes. Manic episodes might not sound so bad. Large bursts of energy fill us with optimism, makes us determined and motivated, and life is full of puppies, flowers, rainbows, and candy.

It’s not all that fun. At all. In fact, it’s just as much of a road block as the depression episodes. While experiencing mania or hypermania, we may seem like the happiest person in the whole wide world, but our minds are both going a mile a minute, and remaining completely blank at the same time. Now, everyone is different, so symptoms may differ from person to person, but these are the things that I experience. I basically turn into a hyperactive child, bouncing around, not properly listening to people who are talking to me, I get easily distracted, and if someone is trying to be serious, it’s nothing but a joke to me. Obnoxious, loud, spontaneous… and reckless.

Having a manic episode is still dangerous. I have indeed participated in self mutilation while seemingly completely happy. The problem is, I’m not really aware that I’m doing it. It just… happens. The X on my hip was caused by one of these instances. During the episode, I don’t really seem to care, but other people definitely do. They ask, “why did you do this to yourself?” Do you know what I say? Something completely off topic, because I avoid the question. For me, my manic episodes last significantly shorter than my depression ones do, though they used to last longer when I was younger. When I was nineteen, I had one that lasted about three months. I had some long ones in my senior year of high school too.

Oh, it gets better. How does one come out of these episodes? Oh, well, IF ANY TINY LITTLE THING GOES WRONG, I’m brought spiraling down into an extremely deep depression. Doesn’t that sound fun? Oh yeah, it’s a fucking blast.

My depression episodes last a very long time, months on end. My brain takes anything bad, even the smallest thing, and reacts like it’s the end of the fucking world. I have no motivation, no determination, no appetite, and no energy. When I say no motivation, I mean not even enough motivation to watch a movie or play a video game. I lay in bed, staring at my wall, and listening to my thoughts. Oh, this is the greatest part; MY THOUGHTS. They run wild, literally nothing can silence them. I don’t hear voices, but I might as well, I can’t control what they say, I can’t stop them, and I can’t tell them they’re wrong. They say things like, “I’m worthless,” “I’m hopeless,” “no one cares about me,” “mommy didn’t love me,” “my life has no meaning,” and “I want to kill myself.” These are things I do not think while in my right state of mind. And you know what? I believe them.

You’d be lucky to get me to talk while in a “mild” depression episode, or even move for that matter. If I start to talk, you’ll know that things are gradually going downhill. If I start crying, I’m starting to have an attack. Oh, the attacks are the most fun, but I’ve only heard about them, because I don’t remember them. A few people have seen these attacks, but Sempai and Michael have seen them more than anyone, and they’ve provided me with the details that utterly horrified me. In fact, both have said, “you become a different person.”

Even when mildly depressed, I, again, turn into a child. If someone tries to gently grab me, I’ll yank away with a whiny grunt. I will pout, I will dead weight so no one can move me, I’ll refuse to look at anyone, and also refuse the much needed help. When the attacks happen, according to what my loved ones have told me, I’m like a child throwing a tantrum, except I’m dangerous. I have come very close to killing myself multiple times, but have succeeded in collecting a large amount of self inflicted scars on my body during my life. Also remember that I was not medicated until I was twenty, so when I was a teenager, my hormones made my depression even more unbearable.

I’m not just a danger to myself, though. I get violent both toward me, and the people around me. I’ve never tried to kill anyone, but I’ve left huge scratch marks on people that took quite some time to fade, and even bit Michael a few times. Luckily, he is much stronger than me, so he is able to hold me down. This doesn’t stop the screaming, however. Like I said, I am throwing a tantrum. I scream as if I were being murdered, my sobbing doesn’t stop, I fight every single fucking step of the way, and if I get a hold of something sharp, it needs to be taken away immediately.

After the violent part of the attack ends, it’s just hysterical crying. I am no longer a danger to anyone, and Michael and Sempai know to hold me tight like a fucking baby. They have to comfort me, saying “shhh,” and “it’s alright…” I’ve been told I’ve said things like, “why didn’t mommy love me?” “Where’s mommy?” and “I want my mommy.” Since most of my trauma stems from Erin’s abuse, that’s usually what my brain likes to focus on. An attack like this can last from one to three hours non-stop, and I’m not exaggerating. Once I go quiet again, it’s unlikely I will have an attack for another few days.

When in the mild stages of my depression, I will cry for literally no reason. You know when you get upset and you have a good cry for about ten, maybe twenty minutes? Yeah, mine last for a few hours, the waterworks turning on for long periods of time, shutting off shortly, and then turning on again. No fucking reason. And unlike a manic episode, it’s much harder to come out of the depression. Sometimes it’ll change out of nowhere for absolutely no reason at all, but simply trying to “cheer me up” does nothing. Doesn’t that sound fun?

You can imagine the hell this has put me through. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was twelve or thirteen, but I was showing symptoms much earlier, around six or seven. Naturally, no one paid attention to the quiet little blonde girl, not even her family. Erin herself would joke, “she’ll start crying for no reason, lock herself in her room, and come out an hour later completely happy.” Oh yes, you stupid bitch, so funny. Why did it take you until I was in middle school to get me checked out? A six year old should not be talking about wanting to die, or wanting to kill people. When I was diagnosed, they put me on medication that made it worse, so I refused to take it. When I was twenty, I decided on my own to get properly treated.

I had to endure this disorder on top of abuse and neglect from Erin, and constant bullying at school. This wasn’t “neener neener neener” bullying either, kids have tried to kill me. Not only that, but my entire life, I’ve had social phobia, which I didn’t know until recently is the same thing as Social Anxiety Disorder. Now, I’ve exhibited text book symptoms of this disorder to the T, but I have not been professionally diagnosed yet. I’m going to get psychoanalyzed in a few weeks. I’m preparing for the introduction of a second Other…

Oh yeah, Others. For those of you who don’t know, they are fictional creatures that represent real mental disorders. I created Annatier as a form of self therapy, because regular therapy doesn’t work on me. She has helped me understand my Manic Depression much better, to the point where I have found ways to cope, and have accepted the things I can’t control. Doing this has inspired many of my fans to create Others based on their disorders as well, and it has helped them cope too. I’m thrilled to hear this, because I feel that my purpose in life is to help others find ways to arm themselves against the unkindness life brings. I’ve endured a lot of pain, and I want to keep others from feeling it so severely, I want to help them find the strength to meet these issues head on. I have been told by countless people that my advice is impeccable, and I’ve saved tons of people from suicide, including my own brother.

Anyway, thanks to medical science, I can keep my moods stable so I can lead as normal a life as I can. What does this mean? I have to take medication for the rest of my life. Every. Single. Day. It’s not fun, I don’t like it, I wish I didn’t have to, but it’s the only thing that keeps me emotionally normal and shuts my brain up. On top of depression, I’ve also had to struggle with insomnia since I was nine. “Oh, how annoying can it possibly be to take a couple pills every day?” A couple? Not including my vitamin B and vitamin D pills, I have to take nine pills each day. In the morning: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. In the evening, around 5:30 or so: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. At night, before bed: three Trazodone pills. Those are to get me to sleep. I have to take pills just to fucking sleep. What keeps me awake? Well, the earlier meds have worn off, sooooo…. my thoughts.

That means, each day, I’m taking three anti-depressants and one anti-psychotic. FUN, RIGHT? FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. It’s so COOL to have this disorder, and I’m so FUCKING HARDCORE. And god forbid, if I forget to take my medication, I may not have an attack, but I will certainly fall. I don’t have many manic episodes anymore, they seem to be rare as you get older. Speaking of, Manic Depressive Disorder gets worse as you age. I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a long way to go, and a hell that will never leave. THERE IS NO CURE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS.

I also suffer from two disorders that affect my appearance negatively, which doesn’t help make me feel better. I am very self conscious about my appearance, so dealing with these two things are a nightmare. People that have one usually have the other as well, and there is no cure. These things are…

Dermatillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one’s own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused.”

Trichotillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the compulsive urge to pull out one’s hair, leading to hair loss and balding, distress, and social or functional impairment.”

These two disorders are NOT, I repeat, NOT a joke. Since I was nine or ten, I’ve pulled out my eyebrows and eyelashes, and obsessively picked at my skin. In fifth grade, both arms were covered in scabs. When I was sixteen, I started pulling hair from my head. Since I hit puberty, I’ve picked at every single goddamn imperfection on my face, to the point where I have embarrassing scabs and scars. Here is a recent picture:

this_is_why_i_m_not_pretty_by_reitanna_seishin-d9ny7aq

It took a lot of courage to even post this on DA, let alone here. Of course, you can’t see the bald spots on my scalp, but you can see my eyelashes, eyebrows, and skin. Oh, by the way? My eyebrows will never properly grow back. The only hair that grows is vellus hair, and maybe a few terminal hairs here and there, but not enough to form a shape. I have to draw them on. Every. Day.

As for my face? These were not huge pimples. These were things that other people could not see unless they looked as close as I did. And do you know what I do? I pick off the scab to reveal little white bulbs that I try to pull out with tweezers. What are these white bulbs? MY HAIR FOLICLES. I cannot control this, no matter how hard I try. Hell, you should see my back and shoulders! And don’t even get me started on my pubic area. ISN’T. THIS. FUN??? I’ve tried many things to get myself to stop, but it NEVER FUCKING WORKS.

Why have I brought all of this shit up? To make you pity me? To try and get sympathy? To show how horrible my life has been? No. To make people understand. In fact, I think pity is one of the most disgusting things a person can give to the disabled. But chances are, many of you do understand! A lot of you may struggle with the same obstacles! Hell, I bet some of you have it worse than me! I’m just one out of seven billion people on the planet, of course there are people like me, or have worse situations! The point is…

I have been ridiculed for these things. These disorders I can’t control, these painful and degrading things that I didn’t choose to have. Some of you can relate to what I’m about to say. I’ve been accused of, get this…. I’ve been accused of CRYING OUT FOR ATTENTION. Because I’m honest about what goes on in my head? Because I’m a human being who is done hiding like I’ve done for nearly two decades? Because I want to help people understand what could possibly being going on in their heads?

Oh! OH! It gets better! I’ve been called “emo” because I have depression. I HAVE A SERIOUS MEDICAL DISORDER THAT I CANNOT CONTROL IN ANY WAY, and I’m apparently “emo.” Um, I am twenty-five years old, there is no such thing as stupid little teenage fashion cliques! Hell, “emo” isn’t even a thing! People use it to describe EVERYTHING!!! I FUCKING HATE IT!! Oh! And then there’s this one… “edgy.” I’m “edgy” because I HAVE A FUCKING MENTAL DISORDER. It’s so COOL and HARDCORE to have to take NINE PILLS EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR THE REST OF MY FUCKING LIFE!! Do you understand how much I HATE this? I would give both of my legs to be cured of this. I’d never be able to walk again, but that’s way better than dealing with my illness!

Same with the DTM and TTM. I posted that picture on Deviant Art, not to get fucking sympathy or pity, but to make people understand why I don’t think I’m pretty. I’m SICK and TIRED of hearing, “oh, you’re pretty no matter what!” NO! FUCKING NO! DO YOU SEE THAT? THAT IS UGLY AS FUCKING SIN!! I wanted people to tell me how bad it was, to basically punch me in the face to possibly get my mind to understand that it needs to STOP. It was basically a voluntary intervention. You know what? I got a lot of people who didn’t read the description telling me what I didn’t want to hear: That I’m pretty on the inside! That the outside doesn’t matter! IT MATTERS TO ME! The other people told me exactly what I needed to hear, they were honest, and though the words may look unkind, I needed to hear them from somebody other than myself. The truth isn’t always pleasant, but it is always necessary.

Oho, but there was one user who was butt hurt that I blocked him for being a douchebag, who claimed I posted it to get attention. Are you fucking serious? That’s the reason I want to STOP! Because these scars and bald spots bring me unwanted attention! People stare at me like I’m some fucking druggie! I’m already afraid of people, so WHY the FUCK would I WANT them staring at me you STUPID asshole?!? I hate sympathy, I hate pity, and the only attention I want is the kind I’m rewarded with when I work hard at what I do. When I create something, draw, write, make a video, whatever, that’s what I like. I don’t require it, except, of course, on YouTube because that’s my job, and I am certainly not going to try and get attention through dishonest ways, or by exploiting my flaws! I need people to understand why I say the things I say, why I do the things I do, and so I can help others, as well as receive help for myself! Asking for help is not the same as crying out for attention! I’M FUCKING SUICIDAL, so I must be “emo” and “edgy,” right? FUCK OFF.

I don’t even understand why some people go through such lengths to get attention, the people who seem to “need” it. I don’t understand that. I’m an adult, adults aren’t “edgy” (whatever the fuck that means, because edgy only has three definitions, and these stupid freaks are using it in a way that doesn’t fit any of them), adults are not “emo” (that’s just something stupid teenagers came up with so that they could take multiple fashions, throw them together, and call it a new thing), and adults don’t “cry out for attention.” God… I hope not… then again, there was that lady that lied about being a 9/11 survivor… okay, some sad excuses for human beings do that, but responsible adults with common sense like me DO NOT. I rarely even leave the house, and that’s so people don’t see me, and I don’t see them! Making videos is the only time I feel comfortable being myself somewhat publicly because I’m not face to face with a real person!

I’m not the only fucking person with Manic Depression, I’m not the only fucking person with DTM and TTM, and I’m not the only fucking person who is comfortable enough to talk to people about it. So many people don’t understand mental illness, and I used to be afraid of admitting that my brain wasn’t wired right. But it’s shameful to feel ashamed, and I’m sick of hiding like a sniveling coward. I have completely accepted what I have. I don’t like it. I never will. I hate it. But I’m not hiding. I am a human being, so I will act like a human being. YOU, who attack people like me, are SNIVELING FUCKING COWARDS.

I wish… oho, do I wish… that I could give these bastards a mental illness. Let’s see how “edgy” they think it is. Remember that “point-of-view” gun from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Yeah, I want that, but super powered. Let’s see how they like crying for no reason, let’s see how they like wanting to die, let’s see how they like taking medication, pulling out their hair until they’re bald, and digging holes into their faces! ISN’T IT SO SUPER DUPER COOL?? OH MY GOD, I’M SO FUCKING EDGY!!

You bastards think you’re all big, bad wolves hiding behind a computer, but you’re nothing but sheep. I guarantee that, if you met me face to face, you wouldn’t be able to show those big balls you pretend to have. No, you’d cower. There’s a reason people have told me I’m scary, there’s a reason people have learned not to mess with me. I can’t do SHIT through the internet, but let me tell you, when I’m face to face with someone who has enraged me, my social anxiety is GONE. You’re sheep. Cowardly, pathetic sheep being led by a shepherd, not knowing that your shepherd is taking you to a slaughter house. I’m not afraid like you are, and that’s why I’m honest about what I feel, and how I live. That’s why I don’t keep secrets. What’s the point? I have nothing to gain by hiding, but everything to gain by showing my true self.

Even though I only get one out of every hundred people who decide it’s funny to make fun of the disabled, it still infuriates me to no end. I mean, what if I didn’t have medication and killed myself? Would they say, “oops?” Would they feel ashamed? HA! No, that’s not how it works, apparently. They’d laugh and feel PROUD at what they accomplished. I hate these people who get joy out of seeing other people suffer for no reason. I did not choose to have these disorders, I don’t want them, and I sure as hell don’t need them. Please! Take them away if me talking about them bugs you so much! I would shake your hand and kiss your ass for the rest of my life if you took them away! Why would anyone lie about having an illness? Why does anyone lie in the first place? Lying gets you nowhere! Just deeper into the hole you’ve dug yourself! THAT’S WHY I DON’T DO IT! My code of honor, once again, is honesty, and I cherish it like it’s my own beating heart. I choose not to lie to anyone. Why? Because the consequences for lying are way worse than the consequences for telling the truth. I am literally the most honest person you will ever speak to.

If these fucking shit holes are over the age of twenty, I would be disturbed beyond measure. These are things that snotty nosed preteens and teenagers do to each other. Where the fuck are the parents? Hope you’re proud of your fucking kid! But if they are an adult, I laugh at how ludicrous their behavior is! I mean, you’ve got to be pretty insecure to act like a dull witted teenage bully when you’re a fucking adult that is supposed to be paying bills and taxes! Maybe they have a small dick, I don’t know. Maybe the girls are uglier than I am, I don’t know! But even if this enrages me to no end, at least I know that their warped perception of me is not true.

And what they don’t know is, I am the kindest and most loyal person to people who also show kindness, and I am a wonderful friend. I can love just as much as I can hate, and I can hate like fire can burn. If these trash talking lowlifes had just been kind, and spoken to me as a fellow human, we probably could’ve been great friends! No, they have to make themselves feel better by making other people feel bad. Whatever issues they have to deal with in their life, I could’ve given them the advice to cope. You know what, shit heads? You chose to be miserable, and you chose to be just another zit on the face of society just waiting to be popped. I’d love to take my disorders and shove them into your head, that way, I’d be free of them, and you’d get a taste of hell. Ha! Maybe someone would call you “emo!”

To the people who are kind, to the people who have witnessed behavior like this, and to the people who have experienced this, speak up. None of us should be hiding. The pecking order is fucked up, and we need to do the pecking here. If you have a mental illness, don’t hide from it, fight for it. You know what? Many people have been able to find ways to make their illnesses help them in life. Admittedly, a lot of my best creations have come from my fucked up mind, but I’d still rather be rid of it. All the same, we need to learn to stand up, because we are way stronger than these hip-gangster wannabes. Why? Because we have to deal with literal hell, and yet, we’re still here! They wouldn’t last a week in our shoes! I don’t have the power to start a movement, that’s a very unrealistic fantasy, but maybe my words could reach someone who does. People like this need to be put in their place.

Just stop the silence.

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Quarter of a Century

Well, in less than a month, I turn twenty-five. I didn’t think it would stress me out this much, but it is. Even though I’m on my medication, I feel really down lately, and I just want November eighth to pass.

You’d think I’d be excited for my birthday, but I’m not. Well, in all honesty, my birthdays stopped being fun after I turned eighteen. But this… I didn’t think I’d make it this far. No, I didn’t want to make it this far. Just because my medication helps keep my brain in check, doesn’t mean I’m not still suicidal. The difference is, I’m not going to go kill myself in a fit of depression. I’m stable, so I can think clearly and make rational decisions.

Still, I don’t want to be twenty-five, I don’t want to be another year older, and I don’t want to be reminded that I’ve spent a quarter of a century in this stupid world. And then there’s the getting older part. I’ve already lost my cuteness that I had as a teenager, but as I get closer to thirty, the wrinkles will start showing up. That means the bags under my eyes are going to be even more alarming. And all that aging cream and wrinkle reducing cream and all that? Expensive face moisturizers. That expensive stuff that claims to reduce signs of aging is the same thing as your everyday moisturizer. Moisture helps reduce the appearance of wrinkles, but as you get older, it can only do so much. So the fact of the matter is, I’M GOING TO GET EVEN UGLIER THAN I ALREADY AM. I’ll probably get fatter, too, even though I’ve been losing weight. NOT ENOUGH.

I’m not worried about grey hair. I’m blonde, have TTM, and like to wear wigs. Big whoop. No, I’m going to get uglier, and I have to spend more time with people around me. I HATE PEOPLE. The only two people I even care about is Michael and Sempai. Sempai was so excited about turning twenty-five, and I honestly couldn’t see why… then again, she actually likes people. She doesn’t have the same thought process I do.

Mike and I are going to Missouri on November ninth, the day after my birthday. I’m hoping the change in scenery will make me feel a little better, plus there are less people in one area, unlike here where all the houses are so close together, we can all hear each other. Can’t even go out at night without passing someone, and each time we do, it freaks me out. While in Missouri, we’re going to check the price of houses. If things look good over there, then in one to two years, we’ll move across the country. Being in a house and not being so surrounded will do me some good. Some people are afraid of change, but god, I need it so badly.

Why do we even celebrate the day we were born?

Sweet, Sweet Salvation from Myself

This is sort of a different blog post than the stuff I have posted more recently. I honestly don’t write enough on WordPress just because I never really think about it. I mean, I don’t have nearly as many followers on here as I do on Deviant Art and YouTube, but my right mind suddenly says to me, “wait a minute, that’s not why you write here. Your mindset of ‘nobody is reading this’ just sounds like another blogger trying to gain popularity for no reason.” My right mind is… RIGHT… as usual, and my unstable mind is always wrong.

Youtube and DA are different because they are ways to express doing what I love, and the mild popularity I have obtained over time was accidental. Now making videos on YouTube is my job, I get paid every month for it, it pays my bills, buys me food, buys food and bedding for my beloved rats. Sure, I don’t make enough to buy things for enjoyment, or help my boyfriend and I buy a house instead of living in this shitty apartment that’s too expensive for what it is, but it’s only a matter of time before I get there. We need to make money in this world to live, and it SUCKS because everything is so damn expensive!

The point is, I write these blogs because I just need to get it out. Even if only a couple of people read it, it doesn’t matter, because the point of most of these senseless banters is a form of therapy. I have a bad habit of bottling things up because it’s become a fad to accuse people of “wanting attention” for expressing the way they feel, and the reason for this is because there are some little shits out there who think it’s okay to pretend to be feeling something they’re not just to get people to pay attention to them. What people don’t understand is that there is a difference between “crying out for attention” and “needing to vent.” For anyone that has a problem expressing their feelings and bottling it all up, you know it builds and builds until you eventually burst into a fit of anger or a traumatizing panic attack. It’s unhealthy, especially for people who already suffer from psychological disorders. I honestly feel that sometimes people accuse others of wanting attention because they want attention. When it comes down to it, they are not my problem. I am my problem. I always have been.

If you keep up with my activity, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental disorder known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. I was diagnosed when I was a preteen, but I displayed signs of it much earlier according to family members who actually gave a crap but could do nothing about it because the woman who birthed me was an insane whore that didn’t give a shit about her children. I could’ve gotten help a lot sooner if she had just stopped fucking strange men who beat her and paid attention to her daughter. I was put on medication that made things worse, so I was afraid to take medication until I was twenty. Unfortunately, Manic Depression gets worse as you get older, so when things got really bad into my adulthood, I decided it was time to help myself.

It was a very good decision. I told the psychiatrist about my bad experiences with medication, and he put me on some meds that made me feel normal. It was the best I had felt in my entire life. Finally, I didn’t want to die, finally, I’d stop hurting myself, and finally, I stopped sobbing for hours for no apparent reason. Of course, this meant that I’d have to be on medication for the rest of my life, and doses would have to be adjusted accordingly.

A few years later, my most recent doctor decided to put me on Paxil, which is an SSRI. The two medications I had had bad experiences with were also SSRIs, so I’m sure you can tell where this is going. It seemed like the Paxil was doing a good job at keeping me stable, but the price I paid was uncontrollable shaking, twitching, and increased anxiety. It didn’t help that I accidentally took double the dose my first time because of a misunderstanding, and I was vomiting for a few days. However, the shaking and twitching never stopped. People noticed it; even on my videos it was noticeable. It worried my friends, my boyfriend, my coworkers at the time… and then I quit my job. The reason for this was because for the three years I had been working there, one of the assistant managers was harassing me to the point where the company actually required me to attend therapy, which did not help. Therapy has never helped me. So finally, I couldn’t take it. I quit my job and went home.

My boyfriend was supposed to be in Vegas with his family the day I quit. If he had gone, I’d be dead. The trip was cancelled at the last minute, so he was home to stop me from trying to kill myself. After that, I started to develop very aggressive Agoraphobia, which is fear of leaving the house. It doesn’t help that I am also a Sociophobe, and that escalated as well. I am currently in the recovery process, but I didn’t leave the house for two years, and I gained a lot of weight. Because of my Agoraphobia, I could not go to the doctor, so my medication ran out, and I suffered very extreme withdrawal symptoms from quitting Paxil cold turkey. I couldn’t leave my bed for a few months because I was dizzy, I was always throwing up, and yet I could not eat, so nothing but bile came out. Water and bread were all that I could stomach, and I slept sixteen hours a day, which made me feel even more lethargic.

Finally, the symptoms subsided, and eventually, I stopped shaking and twitching. I was off my medication for six months, so in that period, I was depressed most of the time with very few manic episodes, I got angry at the smallest things, I cried constantly for hours on end, and every single fucking day, I just wanted to kill myself. I also could not sleep because I have insomnia that requires medication as well. My fear of death disappeared, my pain tolerance increased (which made cutting myself so easy, it was like nothing more than a stubbed toe), and my extreme fear of needles that I’ve had all my life was GONE. That last one surprised me very much; I have always been terrified of needles, so much that a simple IV would send me into a panic attack. But no, all of that was gone. Why? Absolutely no idea.

Again, for those who follow me, you’ll know about Annatier. She is a character I created many years ago to help better understand and cope with my disorder. Note that hallucinations are NOT part of my disorder, so no, I do not see her, and no, I do not hear her. She is simply a metaphor, but she as a person does not exist. However, when unstable, my thoughts start to get out of control. They don’t become an outside voice, I simply cannot control them. They will tell me things like, “you’re worthless,” “no one loves you,” “mommy didn’t love you,” “you should kill yourself,” et cetera. Suppressed memories are dug up, all positive thoughts are drowned out, and the bad thoughts overlap each other. They don’t need to be a voice to be loud.

I had to try and keep myself busy to shut “Annatier” up. The problem is, Manic Depression is notorious for making people unmotivated and uninterested in every day activities and beloved hobbies. So I was left alone with my thoughts, and it drove me mad. I even began feeling homicidal, feeling like I should simply throw away my life, go stab some people, and get tossed in jail. Hell, the only reason I didn’t kill myself was because I promised to my boyfriend and best friend that I wouldn’t, and my code of honor prevents me from breaking promises. I wanted to go to a mental hospital because I felt I should be locked up. Fuck! I thought about killing people! Actually fucking killing random people who didn’t deserve it! Yeah, I love me some horror and gore, and I write plenty of it, but it is meant to be fictional, I am not a murderer. So not only was I a danger to myself, but possibly others. Luckily, I was able to keep these sick fantasies exactly what they were: fantasies. But still, why couldn’t I go to a mental hospital? Well, my boyfriend kept saying I didn’t need to. I just needed my medication back.

Finally, after two years, I decided I didn’t want to be afraid to leave the house. So I started taking small steps and going places, but never alone. I am still working on it, but I am much better than I was. Unfortunately, a recent car crash has regressed me a little, but that’s just another obstacle, right? At long last, I was able to see my doctor, and I told him what the Paxil did to me. He came to the conclusion that my body did not react well to SSRIs, so instead he put me on an SSNI called Effixor (I don’t actually know if that’s how it’s spelled), along with my sleeping medication and my antipsychotic. I had also been on Welbutren (sp?) before, but he didn’t want to give me too much too fast.

After the first week, I started to notice differences in how I felt. The best part was, I had zero side effects. I began to feel sane, my thoughts were more controllable, my disturbing urge to murder innocent people just to be locked up was gone, and for once in what seemed like decades, I didn’t want to kill myself. It was the best fucking feeling ever, and I remembered what it was like to feel sane. Mean comments on YouTube and DA no longer struck me with irrational anger because I was thinking logically, and was able to tell myself that the people who took the time to insult me were idiots that didn’t deserve my time or energy. Little things that usually depressed the hell out of me no longer had such an effect, AND NO MORE PANIC ATTACKS! And the frosting on the cake? SLEEP. GLORIOUS, UNITERRUPTED SLEEP. My best friend has noted that the shadows under my eyes are considerably less noticeable!

For six weeks, I progressively felt mentally healthier than I had been before, but I noticed something odd. Instead of feeling decently happy like I did when I was on my previous medications, I felt… numb. Yeah, I could laugh, smile, and brief periods of joy were not uncommon, but when it came down to it, I felt so neutral, so apathetic, I wasn’t sure if I should be worried or not. Things did not affect me, and not just because of mental stability, but just every day things had no negative or positive effect on me. Of course, I was also not depressed, so I said to my boyfriend, “I’d rather feel numb and apathetic than depressed and suicidal any day.” It’s been like this since I’ve been on the Effixor (sp?), and I think I know why.

The chemical imbalance in my brain causes me to feel angry, depressed, or sometimes the exact opposite side of the emotional spectrum at extreme levels, though my manic episodes used to last way longer when I was a teenager. What it feels like right now is that my brain is trying to fight the medication, trying to tell me to be depressed, but the medication is putting up a very good fight. As a result, I’m stuck smack-dab right in the middle, causing me to feel next to nothing on a regular basis. I have also seen only a small increase of productivity in me, but I still end up losing motivation. However, instead of “what’s the point,” it’s simply a loss in interest. Because of this, I’ve seen almost every horror movie available on Netflix. T_T Some were pretty good, like American Mary, but some SUCKED HARDER THAN SUCKING ITSELF. I considered The ABCs of Death to be a waste of my time, and refuse to watch the sequel. I’ve also watched quite a few “found footage” movies I wasn’t too fond of, though the V/H/S series wasn’t too bad.

Two weeks ago, I saw my doctor again, and told him how I’ve been feeling. He mentioned that I looked a lot better, and was happy to hear I was also feeling better. In the end, he put me back on Welbutren (sp?), and so far I’ve seen minimal improvement, but these things take time. The car crash sort of didn’t help things, so I’ve just got to be patient. But anyone who knows me knows I am very impatient…

Overall, compared to how I was feeling, I feel fan-fucking-tastic. Like I said, I’d rather be apathetic than suicidal any day! The upside is that negative comments over the internet do not affect me in any way, except to shake my head, block the loser, and delete the comment. Of course, it does annoy me that idiots and scum exist out there, but at least I don’t feel like I want to strangle someone after reading, “o my gawd u suk nd r ugly.” I am able to rationalize the reasons the person left the comment and decide it’s literally nothing. Once it’s deleted and the person is blocked, they don’t exist to me anymore. Besides, all they want is attention, right? Well, I get sick satisfaction out of denying them that attention, because nothing gets to a bully more than their victim not reacting to their torment. It’s actually quite hilarious.

Hopefully I will be seeing more improvement over the next few weeks in my ability to feel, as well as my lack of interest in things. My rats help a lot, because at least cute little animals still have the ability to make me happy. I don’t think that’ll ever change, even if I have bouts of unreasonable homicidal thoughts. I’d never hurt an animal, so at least there’s that much. Nevertheless, I don’t want to kill myself, I don’t feel I need to hurt myself or anyone else, and I’m sleeping. I feel healthy, sane, and less of a worthless screw up. When it comes down to it, all I needed was my medication back. Sometimes that’s all it takes to help someone who is mentally ill. We’ve come a long way in medicine, and I’m glad for it. Now keeping my promise is much easier, and Annatier has finally shut up.

Sweet salvation indeed.

YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE AN OPINION!!

I just recently watched a video on ten laws in the USA that no one follows, and one of them was jaywalking, which was the only one on the list that I myself do indeed follow. So I commented on the video explaining that I don’t jaywalk, but that’s not to say I haven’t jaywalked because I used to have friends in high school that were not quite as rule abiding as me, and due to peer pressure, I have jaywalked in my life very few times. (I had to jaywalk last night when walking outside with my boyfriend at twelve o’clock at night because there was a really creepy dude in front of us, but that’s way different.)

There was no harm intended in the comment… in fact, it was simply stating that all of the “friends” who frequently jaywalked never followed any rules, never finished high school, and never did anything with their life. The point of the comment was saying that I was always the good kid in my group of bad friends.

AND I WAS ATTACKED FOR IT.

I had to remove the comment from the video because I was getting so much hate. And for what? For being a good kid? I’ve never done drugs, never drank, never stolen, and never cheated, and I’m the bad person? Am I not allowed to express my opinion because I’m a good person? Is it wrong that I happen to care about my own fucking morals? Is it wrong to even have morals? What the fuck has this stupid world come to? Where someone can’t even express that they follow ONE FUCKING LAW out of a list of ten that no one else follows because they will get the rest of the internet HATING on them? I am SOOO fucking sorry that I’m not the crack smoking, vodka drinking, gun wielding badass that you need to be in order to have any sort of value in this world.

I fucking hate people. I wish I ruled the world, I really did, because then we wouldn’t have so many FUCKING IDIOTS. I shouldn’t have to be afraid of commenting on videos, I shouldn’t be afraid of being judged, and I shouldn’t have to REMOVE the comment just because people are disgusting drug users who need to be erased from this already disgusting, dishonest world. And people wonder why I want to kill myself! BECAUSE OF THIS SHIT! Because every single fucking piece of human shit is just another EYESORE on this fucking planet!

You know, it took me a year to get the courage to comment on other people’s videos again… maybe I made a fucking mistake. Here’s a lesson to all of you: don’t have an opinion, because if you do, you’ll be hated. Don’t speak your mind, don’t tell the truth, don’t be a good person. If you’re a good person, you might as well hide like I have for two years being stuck in my goddamn house with agoraphobia because you know what? People are shit. People are going to hate you, they are going to bully you, and they are going to tell you that you are worthless and should kill yourself. Why? For being smart. For being honest. For being nice.

I would not be upset if every human on the planet dropped dead RIGHT now. If there’s a god, he fucked up making us. We’re bad, and he should feel bad. I HATE THIS WORLD.

Just Need to Vent

YouTube finally fixed the problem we were having with the comments page, so I went through a few pages of comments that I wasn’t able to go through for the passed couple of days. There actually weren’t many hateful comments, just one or two, one that made me laugh because they called me “emo,” obviously one of those idiots who doesn’t understand that labels don’t exist to me anymore because I left that behind in high school. Apparently dressing the way you want makes you emo, scene, or goth, even if you wear clothes that don’t fit in with that style. Apparently everything depends on your clothes and hair. Apparently I can’t just enjoy certain fashions. Yeah, well fuck people who think that way, because i’ll wear shit from whatever store I shop from as long as it’s cute. Maybe that’s a frilly pink dress, maybe that’s some awesome blue jeans and a gaming t-shirt, maybe that’s a black corset with a plaid skirt. If I went under labels, then I’d be a different label every time I get dressed, because I have many different styles that can range from “prep” to “goth” or whatever. But even when I had my goth phase in high school, I was never EMO. Apparently ANYTHING dark or unorthodox is fucking EMO. Is punching stupid little shits in the face emo? Because then maybe we’d be on to something.

Anyway, there was one comment that irked me, and the reason why is because it was so unbelievably STUPID, I had to refrain from messaging the person and chewing them out. Instead I simply blocked them, which took away the comment, so I can’t copy and paste it word for word, but i’ll try to remember what it said.

“Do you remember me Reitanna? I am your medicine (or some other stupid shit, the typing was really bad and I can’t remember), I am your mother Aaron.”

The comment was a little longer, but like I said, it was so poorly worded and the spelling was awful, I couldn’t really tell what it said, but I understood the first and last part. Now, let me just clarify something. No, this comment did not scare me or upset me because it was apparently from the woman who birthed me, because it wasn’t. If that whore attempted to comment on my shit and let me know it was her, she would not call me by my INTERNET ALIAS and she would not SPELL HER OWN DAMN NAME WRONG. “Aaron” is a boy’s name, “ERIN” is the female spelling of it. No, why this comment bothers me is because of the simple stupidity. The fact that this person wanted to harm my mentality by trying to act like Erin. Do you know what would’ve happened if that comment had been written correctly? Welp, I’ve got LOTS of different things in my medicine cupboard that would be perfect to overdose on! In fact, I think you can overdose on too much iron, and I have plenty of iron. Hell, I could just take every single goddamn thing in every single fucking pill bottle. If that comment had been written correctly, I’d lose it. I wouldn’t care about promises. I’d have fucking killed myself because it’s either her, or me, and I don’t know where she is. Ha! Or I could go the other route and just do what I’ve fantasized about doing for a loooooooong ass time! This is why I need anti-psychotics.

But you know what, this little fucker, who is probably another stupid ten year old that doesn’t belong on YouTube, is fucking LUCKY that I have enough self control. Because you know what? It’s not hard to find people. It’s not. Especially when you have resources, which I do have. The Deep Web is a very scary place, my friends. and this stupid little fuck is VERY lucky that I am at least sane enough to block his stupid little ass and sit here festering in my own anger. The stupidity is so angersome… I get more stupidity on YouTube than I get on DA, and I am SO glad I don’t go on Tumblr, because then I’d shoot myself, and the gun is not my preferred way to go. Too loud. Plus, there have been instances where people have tried to shoot themselves and survived, and I am not living as a faceless vegetable. In fact, when I write my will, I will make sure to state, “if I am ever in a vegetative state, PULL THE PLUG.”

I really wish I could sock this kid in the face though. No… even better, I wish I could take all of my thoughts, feelings, and memories and zap them into his/her brain and make them experience every single second of torment I had to go through from that pig that dares to call herself my mother. Heh… maybe he’d off himself and the gene pool would be cleared of one less idiot.

Are you happy kid? You got what you wanted. You got under my skin. But just so you know (not that you’re even reading this), you could’ve caused a death. If you were intelligent in any way, shape, or form, you would’ve caused someone to commit suicide. YOU ARE SCUM.

I get my medication back in 5 days… it will be so nice not to feel like this anymore… so easily angered, so full of hate, so tempted to go out and do something that could land me in jail, so willing to end my own life. And you know what? If I did, that stupid fuck would be happy. As would many people. As would I. All the same…

I feel sorry for that kid’s FUCKING PARENTS.

What the FUCK Happened?

Okay, so I have to talk about this one. I know I haven’t posted for a very long time, but this is something worth venting about. So, I’m gonna talk about some people, but for confidentiality reasons, I will refer to them as letters. Also, if you know who I am talking about, please to not reveal their names.

So, my best friend for nearly 6 years, L, has… well, I don’t even fucking understand what happened. She used to be fine, and then she became simply psychotic. And trust me, I have to take anti-psychotic medication, so I KNOW psychotic. But now that I’m normal, I can’t comprehend her logic behind some of the ridiculous things she says! A few months ago, she became friends with M, and so did I. M was really cool to hang around, and she was another intelligent person. The three of us had a lot of fun together. But for some reason, L started getting depressed and having breakdowns. At first, I understood how it felt to be in her shoes, because I did. I’ve had depression. But it started getting a little… more out of hand than I thought. She started self diagnosing herself, which probably made her think she had the symptoms, and subconsciously gave her a reason to have temper tantrums. She acted like a child. L lives with her parents, and she’s 21. I’m younger than her by a few months. If her parents didn’t let her borrow the car, she would curl up in a ball on the floor and scream. L was always the one to talk me out of suicide when I wasn’t in control of my disorder, and she was there for me when I was getting myself better. I had to right myself, I didn’t depend on other people to fix me, but I did look to L for support. L always said that she wouldn’t dream of harming herself, but she would tell me how… well, let’s just get into this. L met M’s friends, C and V for the first time. L was a little too forward with C. She acted as though they had been friends for a long time, and expected C to find it humorous if L played around and teased her a bit. But C is self conscious and uncomfortable with L’s obnoxious behavior, and V stepped in, as any good and protective friend would, and told L to back off. L was convinced C and V weren’t her friends, so at school she went behind a building and poked herself with a pencil. Hmm. Wow, that sure is hardcore.

So on and on she would threaten suicide. “I’m going to go drive into a tree,” she said one time. She checked herself into a mental hospital for about two days and came out as if she was cured. She’s in therapy regularly. Poor M is the main victim here because L would scream at her and tell her she doesn’t care, she’s not supporting her, or she’s not there for her. She says M is turning all her friends against her. Two of these “friends” are T and S. T met her once and automatically didn’t like her. S only met her online, and told me she felt frightened by L. T actually told me that part of her wanted to tell L herself, “look, I don’t like you, and I have never liked you.”

What is L’s definition of support? Because I believe it means urging someone like this to get better, staying by her side to try and show her we care… support does not mean we fix her for her. I have been around L and M every time L has a tantrum. M tries her best to speak reasonably to L, but L says that M is speaking hostile. As I sit there, my brain is twitching from the ridiculousness. “How is she being hostile? How did we end up talking about this? And how the hell did it escalate to this magnatude? Isn’t this kind of a small thing to get all worked up about?” So, after the second time, M and I were both very wary. We were gonna go to San Francisco, but we were starting to fear that it would go up in flames because of her. I wanted to try and have faith and think of ways that L could deal with situations without freaking out. The main things L freaks out about is if people aren’t paying attention to her or aren’t doing what she wants to do. M did the right thing and warned S about what was going on. S told her mother, who is a nurse and also has bipolar disorder, and hasn’t had a breakdown in at least 20 years, and she said she didn’t feel comfortable with L staying in her house for the first night. L was fuming, but I tried to explain that it was a reasonable thing for M to warn them, otherwise it would’ve been dangerous for S’s mom. So L said M sabotaged her going on the trip, and she hated her and wasn’t her friend. I called M, and she said, “you know, maybe if L can really help herself, and really gets better, I would consider being friends. But I put too much into this friendship, and nothing has changed. I’m done with her behavior.” Note that M just turned 20. The way M spoke to me and explained everything was very mature and calm, though I know she was frustrated, just like me. M has never had any messed up friends, and she met me after I was on meds, so she doesn’t know how scary I am without them. And mind you, she will never know, because I am very consistant when I take my medication.

L seems to think that I haven’t changed. She said once, “we have to keep eachother up.” What is this “we?” And what do you mean “eachother?” I don’t have problems trying to stay happy at parties or events. I was with two people I barely knew in San Fran, and I had the time of my life! They are awesome people! M and S were volunterring most of the time, so T and I would wander around, but I never felt sad or awkward, because I felt at home, and I felt comforted that I can make friends this easily, now that I have my disorder under control. But still, L says she has to walk on eggshells around me because she’s afraid to upset me. Honey, if you upset me, there’s a damn good reason for it. One being, you pretending to be suicidal for attention. I feel angry. I hate to say it, but L has no idea what misery is. She doesn’t know what ‘cutting yourself” is. It’s not poking yourself with a pencil. I am not proud of this, so don’t think I’m bragging when I say it. I’ve bit gashes into my wrist, I’ve scratched myself with a key (and not just a scratch, but freaking sawed at my skin with it), I’ve used a letter opener, safty pins, carved words into my skin, and used my own nails on myself. Hell, once I scratched my left arm with my nails so bad, it was four inches long and one inch wide, and I had to have bandages on it for almost a month before it stopped hurting. It hurt so bad, I could barely move it. I couldn’t even put my backpack over my left shoulder, and to this day, I am still in the habit of slinging backpacks over my right shoulder only. It feels weird to have it over both, unless it’s one of those light plushie backpacks. Poking yourself with a pencil? Oh! And then telling someone about it! Often times, the only way people found out about my scars was if someone accidentally saw it. I would usually hide it under a sweat band I always wore. The unhidable ones I would try and make excuses, though how many people believed me? I don’t know. Of course I told L when it happened, not right away though. There are even some she still doesn’t know about. I’ve lied about my most recent scar that happened when I forgot to take my medication when I first started taking it. But in highschool, she told me it was okay for me to cut myself. I think she wants me to tell her the same. What I feel is that she wants to be patted on the head and told that it’s going to be okay. But true friends don’t lie, and true friends will tell you the most painful things that are true. One big problem is her mother. L’s mother has always been a very corrupt woman for as long as I’ve known her. Right now, she’s babying L, and that’s not helping her to grow up.

So, L calls me and tells me M is trying to turn me against her. I didn’t say this, but I should’ve, but M has nothing to do with this on MY end. If this was happening and M hadn’t even met us, it would be the same. It’s not M who’s turning me against L, it’s L who’s turning me against L. So of course, I told L the honest to god truth, and she started bawling and saying “you’re talking to me like M does!” Oh, you mean like a civilized adult? I’m sorry, should I tawk in a wittle baby voice? So she hung up on me. But listen guys, I don’t let people mess with me or play around with my mentality. I’ve got my own shit going on. I’ve never let people control or manipulate me, and I wasn’t gonna start now. I texted her and told her she had an hour to get her shit together and apologize. Harsh, yes. But you don’t FUCK with me. And hour came, and I said goodbye. I’m gonna call this next person MC because his name starts with an M. MC has been telling me from the start of this disaster, “all I’ve seen is her making you miserable. She may have been a good friend before, but she’s not now. This is unhealthy for you, and I think you need to think about your safety.” The first two times L had a tantrum, I listened to him say this as I was crying and thinking this was my fault. “this isn’t your fault,” he said. “It’s not M’s or your job to fix her. Only she can do this for herself. Nobody can help her.” Both times I considered kicking L out of my life, even before MC said she’s not good for me anymore. He actually said this after I told him, “maybe I should just exclude her frome my life.” I was afraid I’d lose it and get sick again, and I wasn’t about to endanger myself or people around me. I haven’t had a single thought about me dying or a single urge to cut myself in ages, not even when L started this shit. So the third time came around, (that was the whole phone thing), and MC said again, “it’s not your fault.” I said, “I know it’s not, but I think that’s what makes me feel worse. It’s not my fault, but L is blaming me, and M.” He said, “there’s nothing you can do. I’m worried about your health.” So that’s when I said goodbye. Of course, L combats my text with a bullshit message saying “I’m cutting you loose. I need to get rid of the baggage.” This is where I laugh, because it’s so fucking comical. I reply with, “uh, no, it’s ME who is cutting YOU loose. Come back when you mature.” And I haven’t spoken to her since. Am I hurt? Yes. I would be a fool to say I wasn’t. L told me she can’t live without me, and she then said I couldn’t live without her. So what, am I supposed to kill myself if L isn’t around? Uh, I don’t think so. Am I gonna shut my self off from the world? No, I have bills to pay, I have work to go to, and I actually like going and doing stuff, thank you very much. You’ve been like a sister to me L, but if you really cared for me, you wouldn’t have done this to me. It’s your fault, but it’s also your loss. I admit, it will probably take me a bit to get over this, but since I’m actually sane, it won’t consume me.

I just think it’s miraculous. All this time, L has acted as a sister figure, and sometimes a mother figure. She’s always been the one I look to because I wasn’t mature enough to understand how I was supposed to react to things. I didn’t know how to behave because my parents were horrible people. And even to this day, I am probably not as mature as the average 21 year old. I still watch cartoons, I love stuffed animals and toys (of course I don’t play with them, more like cuddle the stuffed animals and take pictures with my dolls and toys), I wear colorful clothings and hair stuff, and I color my hair odd colors. But I’ve become the person I, my mom, and my grandmother, and hell, my entire dad’s side of my family, never thought I’d be. I graduated highschool. I graduated from college. I have a job, I am living in an apartment I can call mine and my roomate’s (MC), I pay rent and bills, I pay student loans, I pay for my share of the groceries, and I still have enough money to spend on myself every now and then. I turn 21 in a week, and L turned 21 in July. Congratulations, Kara. You are more mature than L. It’s… mind boggling.

Another funny thing is, I spent five days with M, and not once did she ever say something mean or insensitive. She didn’t even want to talk about L. She’s just done. L asked me, “how can you still be friends with her?” Because she never did anything to me. As far as I’ve seen, she is an awesome person. And from what I’ve seen, your perspective on her is warped, just as your definition of “support” is. I’m not going to stop being someone’s friend just because another friend doesn’t like them.

So, that’s everything that’s happened, which brings me to the next part. Last night I had a dream about L and M, and one other person was there, but I don’t know who it was. We were at some kind of fair because there were farm animals. I was trying to stay by L’s side because she wanted to feel comforted. M saw something she was excited about and said, “you guys! Come look at this!” So I ran to see the thing, which I think some some kind of giant goat or something. L fell back and didn’t run forward as I had done. When I realized she wasn’t there, I turned and saw her sitting in a corner and crying. I asked what was wrong, and she said that we weren’t paying attention to her, and that I’d rather hang out with M than with her. I told her that M wanted to show us something, so I ran to see what it was. I was confused as to why L didn’t join us. It’s not like we said, “NO! you can’t see!” The dream changed to like a week later. L was talking to me like nothing had happened, but I hadn’t spoken to her for a week because she had made a scene at the fair. I said, “I’m a little frightened. I still don’t really forgive you.” But we went and hung out together anyway. The entire time, I felt shitty and depressed. I wasn’t excited about being around someone who had caused me so much pain multiple times in the last two months. But L ignored my feelings towards her previous behaviors. I felt like I was just there because I was too weak to tell her, “no, I can’t be around you. Not until you grow up.” And then the dream changed to something completely unrelated. Long story short, I believe the dream was summing up everything that has happened. M and I are acting normal, but as soon as we seem like we’re not paying attention to L, it all goes to hell. And then I try to act like I want to give L another chance, but in my mind I am afraid of another tantrum.

However, after all of this, I don’t have a nagging bad feeling in my heart. I know she will be back. Whether it takes weeks, months, or years. She’ll get her life on track (hopefully), and she’ll come back and say, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what the hell happened. I was foolish, immature, and I acted way out of line.” I’m waiting for the sane, adult L to show herself. And if she never returns to me, oh well. We had a good run, and on top of remembering the bad times, I will also remember the good.

Funny, while writing this entire time, I haven’t shed a single tear. Now on to enjoying the rest of my day off. Happy 11/1/11 everyone! XD