Two nights ago I felt really depressed. Yesterday I was supposed to be working but didn't do anything much because I couldn't concentrate. Then my mom interrogated me and got really upset with me but I couldn't say anything because I didn't know how to explain it. I'm really upset with the pair of them, they haven't really made any effort to understand what I go through. I went to bed crying. Seriously. I was actually crying.
But I'm better now!
Which means I have to work. Carp.
December tomorrow. Should be interesting. Big month for me.
Going to New York in April! Four-day field trip with the 11 and 12 Lit and Visual classes. I was #6 to sign up. There's going to be museums and galleries and libraries and Broadway productions and sleeping in a new bed and it is going to be AWESOME! Cannot wait!
I do not like my bed. I think my old mattress gave it character. This new one, while arguably softer and many times more comfortable, just doesn't have that. It's just that slightest bit too short. And there's a streetlight right outside my window. I haven't been able to sleep properly for years because of the bloody thing. Nothing we can do about it, I suppose... but still.
I still feel very, very tired. I need more sleep. Just in general. I need a holiday, a proper one.
Nov 30, 2008
Nov 24, 2008
Hated by all (well, not really...)
...sigh.
Spent an hour this morning in the mental health centre. Answering question after mindless question from one big book. Drugs and alcohol every third page. Mostly about memory. For the last time, I don't remember if I can't remember anything! Honestly... but at least it's progress. All signs so far are pointing to a positive diagnosis for DID. This won't make it better, but at least I have a reality now. That's why people struggle so much coping with these things. They want something that will make everything go back to the way it was. But there are some things that can't be fixed. However much you fix and scrape and pry and comfort you can never, ever change the fact that this terrible thing has happened. That will never go away.
They wanted to know whether I'd had any unusual experiences. They don't care what they are. They don't want to know about the purple flashes, or the titan jellies, or the scars running down my back. The whole time I was answering these questions I wanted to shout "there was more to it than that! There's a story behind it! This isn't a statistic, it's important to me!" But then of course we wouldn't have been able to finish. It took a full fifty minutes.
Oh, and then later on a friend of mine made an entirely untrue (and extremely hurtful) comment about the nature of DID. I was appalled, since she's the last person I'd expect this kind of ignorance from, and while usually she'd at least state her own case she didn't want to argue because she's got other problems at the moment. So now I've got a pit of simmering anger boiling a hole in my stomach. I can't take it out on her - not that I'd be inclined to anyway - and I'm not allowed to take it out on myself any more. It twists and burns.
Incidentally, her mind is mahgging impenetrable. I wonder what her story really is. It makes it all the worse that I've lost much of my respect for her.
Seriously, WTM!?
Watched The Shining last night. I liked it. I think it says a lot about me that I didn't flinch or even blink during the whole thing, except on the word Tuesday. I grasped a lot more of it in my own way than other people might, though I'm still not convinced I understood the whole thing. It's the sort of film you have to see more than once. There are many, many subtleties you never catch the first time through. I liked the mirror scene; I found the movement of the eyes entertaining. I also loved it from the start for casting Shelley Duvall as Wendy, who I think is the only genuinely beautiful female lead I've ever seen in any movie. Think about it.
Very few people know why I hurt. I guess I should be sad about that. To be honest, I've been having trouble feeling much of anything lately. I'm cold and numb, inside and out.
Haven't heard from Danica in awhile. I hope she hasn't gotten sick of me. No, that's overreacting and pessimistic... you know, the usual banter...
Essays to write. I hate essays.
Spent an hour this morning in the mental health centre. Answering question after mindless question from one big book. Drugs and alcohol every third page. Mostly about memory. For the last time, I don't remember if I can't remember anything! Honestly... but at least it's progress. All signs so far are pointing to a positive diagnosis for DID. This won't make it better, but at least I have a reality now. That's why people struggle so much coping with these things. They want something that will make everything go back to the way it was. But there are some things that can't be fixed. However much you fix and scrape and pry and comfort you can never, ever change the fact that this terrible thing has happened. That will never go away.
They wanted to know whether I'd had any unusual experiences. They don't care what they are. They don't want to know about the purple flashes, or the titan jellies, or the scars running down my back. The whole time I was answering these questions I wanted to shout "there was more to it than that! There's a story behind it! This isn't a statistic, it's important to me!" But then of course we wouldn't have been able to finish. It took a full fifty minutes.
Oh, and then later on a friend of mine made an entirely untrue (and extremely hurtful) comment about the nature of DID. I was appalled, since she's the last person I'd expect this kind of ignorance from, and while usually she'd at least state her own case she didn't want to argue because she's got other problems at the moment. So now I've got a pit of simmering anger boiling a hole in my stomach. I can't take it out on her - not that I'd be inclined to anyway - and I'm not allowed to take it out on myself any more. It twists and burns.
Incidentally, her mind is mahgging impenetrable. I wonder what her story really is. It makes it all the worse that I've lost much of my respect for her.
Seriously, WTM!?
Watched The Shining last night. I liked it. I think it says a lot about me that I didn't flinch or even blink during the whole thing, except on the word Tuesday. I grasped a lot more of it in my own way than other people might, though I'm still not convinced I understood the whole thing. It's the sort of film you have to see more than once. There are many, many subtleties you never catch the first time through. I liked the mirror scene; I found the movement of the eyes entertaining. I also loved it from the start for casting Shelley Duvall as Wendy, who I think is the only genuinely beautiful female lead I've ever seen in any movie. Think about it.
Very few people know why I hurt. I guess I should be sad about that. To be honest, I've been having trouble feeling much of anything lately. I'm cold and numb, inside and out.
Haven't heard from Danica in awhile. I hope she hasn't gotten sick of me. No, that's overreacting and pessimistic... you know, the usual banter...
Essays to write. I hate essays.
Nov 19, 2008
List Reckoning
A chronological list of just some of the weird shit that has happened to me:
- the lightning bolt
- that kind of ghost thing
- the face
- stabbing myself in the leg
- meeting with the dark king, part one
- Jim
- the grav-kak
- a slug
- fire in the sky, part one
- nester
- hunter
- ghoul in the night
- the fire prince
- meeting with the dark king, part two
- torment
- assassination
- the goddess
- fire in the sky, part two
- the orange man
- the golden trial
- meeting with the dark king, part three
- Any object, life form, location or situation that is at least 51% out of the ordinary in which the expression “shit” can be used appropriately (but not necessarily) to indicate danger may be classified as weird shit.
- Weird shit attracts more weird shit.
- Weird shit is bad.
- Weird shit may be good, but only when held in direct contrast to some really bad weird shit.
- Weird shit may only be classified as “really, really bad” when at the head of at least two other pieces of bad or really bad weird shit.
- Weird shit that is particularly disgusting, menacing or enormous may be classified as “holy shit” which is 2-300% more dangerous than weird shit. Really, really bad weird shit generally falls into this category, but not always.
- Weird shit beyond the point of being really, really bad is purely hypothetical, and best left nameless.
- Multiplicicity and all-around madness.
- Some days I still walk with a limp.
- A scar on my side that sometimes feels as though it’s bleeding.
- Five scars crossing down my back. They took months to heal.
- Broken and misshapen wings.
- Dents and lumps all across my chest.
- Six tiny stab wounds evenly spaced across my back.
- A fear of purple flowers.
- A fear of broken fingernails.
- A fear of the outdoors.
- Very little desire to convert to Satanism. (hah.)
- The Dream Jar
- The True Map
- Babylon
- The Blood Flowers
- Vampirism
- The Golden Trial, parts 2 and 3
- Skeleton's Final Plan
- My Destiny
- What I really look like to myself
- You remind me of the good things in myself.
- The sound of your laughter.
- Your strength and depth.
- You see things clearly.
- You think I'm beautiful.
- How beautiful you are to me.
- You care about what's best for me.
- You never let me fall.
- I feel happy just being near you.
- You're easy to open up to.
- The way my hand fits in yours.
- The score was unmemorable. Can anyone recall any of the tracks from the film? I didn't think so.
- The acting, with one notable exception, was bad. The worst was the prison scene, where the pretty damn awesome Heath Ledger failed to make up for the underwhelming Christian Bale.
- The tech was bad. This is Batman, not James Bond. Batropes, batarangs, even the batcar are plausible, but the batcycle, batballoon and that freakish batsonarwhatsit were over-the-top. Which leads me to
- The writing was mediocre at best. You can tell the writers have no idea what they're doing when they substitute special effects and a few decent lines for ideas and then write half the plot around getting to use them.
- Heath Ledger is dead. Get over it.
- It's already old news. The greatest movies of all time last forever, but we've already moved on. When the next Batman movie rolls around it will be over, since no superhero movie has ever topped the second in its own series.
Nov 15, 2008
The Quest, part 2
Time is short. I must be assertive.
Assertive! There's no longer time to wait and think. I've been waiting my whole life. For years I've been thinking, and watching, and waiting... all this waiting, endlessly in silence. We've had time to reflect. Now, everything points to action. It's time to implement... Project Assert.
In the past such projects have not gone well. Project Crush never really got off the ground. Project Stop was a miserable failure. Project Rebirth succeeded beyond my expectations, but within months had begun to splinter and crack and ultimately left us worse off than before - without memory. Two other unnamed projects came close to destroying us altogether. Will this succeed where others have failed? I can't say. Certainly it looks promising.
What follows is the outline of the plan so far. The details are better left unsaid. In no particular order,
Assertive! There's no longer time to wait and think. I've been waiting my whole life. For years I've been thinking, and watching, and waiting... all this waiting, endlessly in silence. We've had time to reflect. Now, everything points to action. It's time to implement... Project Assert.
In the past such projects have not gone well. Project Crush never really got off the ground. Project Stop was a miserable failure. Project Rebirth succeeded beyond my expectations, but within months had begun to splinter and crack and ultimately left us worse off than before - without memory. Two other unnamed projects came close to destroying us altogether. Will this succeed where others have failed? I can't say. Certainly it looks promising.
What follows is the outline of the plan so far. The details are better left unsaid. In no particular order,
- Stop worrying.
- Take Danica out and show her the time of her life.
- Get a job.
- Get my G1.
- Make peace with my alters.
- Put my schoolwork back on track.
- Find stability.
- Resolve my anger.
- Survive December.
- Be open and honest about my feelings.
- Work with these doctor people to find out what's really wrong in my head.
- Accept my destiny.
- Actually finish one of my big writing projects.
- Purify my thoughts.
- Start a webcomic.
- Get over my pain addiction.
- Start exercising again.
- Love the world.
- Love myself.
- Forgive Grandfather.
Nov 9, 2008
After a brief interlude...
There are voices in my head. I sometimes mention it but no one listens.
I don't know what they are. They're not from outside, and they're certainly not part of the collective known as Nine. They're just there. Talking. We've named them Molotov the Cruel, Morgoth the Indecisive and Sheba the Enchantress, more as a joke than anything else. They don't have any physical or mental form and can be found nowhere within the System (that we know of) so ascribing names and personalities to them seems illogical... but we just like giving things names.
Molotov speaks quietly, in a low, mocking voice, rising to a crescendo when I'm feeling weak. He calls us all manner of names and assures us that we deserve to die.
Morgoth questions everything. He casts doubts on all our actions, leaving us confused and uncertain. He's not so much of a running commentary as a backseat driver, telling us that we're doing things wrong.
Sheba spends most of her time singing. She's got a fairly good voice, actually. She alternates between songs we've heard and those of her own invention, which have nice tunes but the lyrics are gibberish so far as we can tell. Sometimes Morgoth joins her, but not usually.
Maybe talking about them as physical beings actually helps me deal with them. I don't know. I rarely know.
Sigh.
They whisper in my head, constantly. Semi-constantly at least. Always there. For me that's normal. I often think it must be very lonely in other peoples' heads. So empty. So quiet. Sometimes I think I'd like that... but it's still very alien to me.
Other times I just wish this lot would shut the hell up.
I don't know what they are. They're not from outside, and they're certainly not part of the collective known as Nine. They're just there. Talking. We've named them Molotov the Cruel, Morgoth the Indecisive and Sheba the Enchantress, more as a joke than anything else. They don't have any physical or mental form and can be found nowhere within the System (that we know of) so ascribing names and personalities to them seems illogical... but we just like giving things names.
Molotov speaks quietly, in a low, mocking voice, rising to a crescendo when I'm feeling weak. He calls us all manner of names and assures us that we deserve to die.
Morgoth questions everything. He casts doubts on all our actions, leaving us confused and uncertain. He's not so much of a running commentary as a backseat driver, telling us that we're doing things wrong.
Sheba spends most of her time singing. She's got a fairly good voice, actually. She alternates between songs we've heard and those of her own invention, which have nice tunes but the lyrics are gibberish so far as we can tell. Sometimes Morgoth joins her, but not usually.
Maybe talking about them as physical beings actually helps me deal with them. I don't know. I rarely know.
Sigh.
They whisper in my head, constantly. Semi-constantly at least. Always there. For me that's normal. I often think it must be very lonely in other peoples' heads. So empty. So quiet. Sometimes I think I'd like that... but it's still very alien to me.
Other times I just wish this lot would shut the hell up.
What follows is nothing you haven't heard before.
I feel like I'm going to scream. Or cry. Preferably both. But I never do.
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm angry. I'm angry with the world for being populated by idiots, I'm angry at the spirits, I'm angry with the Father, I'm angry with Grandfather (oh HELLS I'm angry with Grandfather), I'm angry with everyone I know, I'm angry at myself. A little ball of fury, burning to death but refusing to be put out.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I just want to be loved. That's all. I don't want materials, I don't want an education. I don't want to be successful, I don't want to have to face my destiny. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. All I want is to be loved, cared for, nurtured. Ever since the Great Divide and we sealed ourselves off from the world in different forms I've been my own mother, my own father, my own mentor. It's no secret that everyone who's ever loved me has hurt me. That's everyone. EVERYONE.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a cold-hearted, manipulative bastard. I know how to play people and I do, unstoppably. Yet I don't have any goals; when you play both sides of the board, how can it possibly matter who wins? I have no purpose, and I don't care about anyone other than myself. I just draw people tighter and tighter into my web of manipulation, and when I'm gone they'll all have to come crashing down with me.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a broken, bleeding little grotesque, who might - just might - have the powers of a demigod. I crawl ever onwards, too weak to hold myself up but too proud to ask for help, trying to hide my weakness and becoming angry when it works. I bathe myself in scorn and arrogance to smother the pleas for affection, torn between pretending to stand tall and screaming out for mercy, knowing full well that I've warned people not to listen. I fake Münchausen syndrome. It's pitiful... but I refuse to be pitied.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
I don't care what I am or what I strive for. I am me. I live with things that other people don't live with. I'm basically a good person, at least I think so. I talk about myself a lot, mostly because I'm trying to understand. I don't believe in the "self" that so many people try to find. Actually I sort of look down on them. I'm sorry. I put myself down a lot. I tend to blame myself for things. I have difficulty discerning between what is or is not my fault, what is or is not good and evil, between life and death, between pain and pleasure, between truth and reality. I have no sense of time, place, or worth. I think it's highly likely that I have mental problems. I'm highly intelligent, not that that's worth anything any more. I'm highly conflicted. I'm fed up with the world. I draw lines so I can walk on them. I'm deluded. I'm dangerous. I am Nine... and all I want to do is sleep. Forever.
One month left.
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm angry. I'm angry with the world for being populated by idiots, I'm angry at the spirits, I'm angry with the Father, I'm angry with Grandfather (oh HELLS I'm angry with Grandfather), I'm angry with everyone I know, I'm angry at myself. A little ball of fury, burning to death but refusing to be put out.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I just want to be loved. That's all. I don't want materials, I don't want an education. I don't want to be successful, I don't want to have to face my destiny. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. All I want is to be loved, cared for, nurtured. Ever since the Great Divide and we sealed ourselves off from the world in different forms I've been my own mother, my own father, my own mentor. It's no secret that everyone who's ever loved me has hurt me. That's everyone. EVERYONE.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a cold-hearted, manipulative bastard. I know how to play people and I do, unstoppably. Yet I don't have any goals; when you play both sides of the board, how can it possibly matter who wins? I have no purpose, and I don't care about anyone other than myself. I just draw people tighter and tighter into my web of manipulation, and when I'm gone they'll all have to come crashing down with me.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a broken, bleeding little grotesque, who might - just might - have the powers of a demigod. I crawl ever onwards, too weak to hold myself up but too proud to ask for help, trying to hide my weakness and becoming angry when it works. I bathe myself in scorn and arrogance to smother the pleas for affection, torn between pretending to stand tall and screaming out for mercy, knowing full well that I've warned people not to listen. I fake Münchausen syndrome. It's pitiful... but I refuse to be pitied.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
I don't care what I am or what I strive for. I am me. I live with things that other people don't live with. I'm basically a good person, at least I think so. I talk about myself a lot, mostly because I'm trying to understand. I don't believe in the "self" that so many people try to find. Actually I sort of look down on them. I'm sorry. I put myself down a lot. I tend to blame myself for things. I have difficulty discerning between what is or is not my fault, what is or is not good and evil, between life and death, between pain and pleasure, between truth and reality. I have no sense of time, place, or worth. I think it's highly likely that I have mental problems. I'm highly intelligent, not that that's worth anything any more. I'm highly conflicted. I'm fed up with the world. I draw lines so I can walk on them. I'm deluded. I'm dangerous. I am Nine... and all I want to do is sleep. Forever.
One month left.
Nov 5, 2008
Spake, rath, holy fier
I feel like shit.
Multiple times I've felt moved to kick one of the cats, break mirrors, hurl Susan across the room, or physically strike someone.
My speech is further dissipating. Language skills are falling apart. I'm worried it's only going to get worse. Yet another symptom of schizophrenia. Sigh. The panic attacks have started again as well. No... not panic attacks. Triggering episodes. I'm going to call them what they are, because dammit, I take my disorder seriously even if no one else does.
I'm just so angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the world.
People try to comfort me by saying that I'm okay. That I'm a good person. That there's nothing wrong with me. This doesn't help. It's just denying that there's a problem. That's not what I need. I want someone to just accept me for what I am. But then I'm always hiding. There's always that divide. I'm good at it, too. For the past couple weeks no one's realized I'm in enormous emotional distress.
On one hand I'm friendly, charismatic, content. On the other I'm angry, self-obsessed, violent. On the other I'm small, in mortal pain, and screaming (no one hears). On the other I'm quiet, unwanted, unnoticed. I circle round and round, never finding rest.
Every day I go to school afraid that I'm going to kill someone. Every. Day.
I keep walking.
Multiple times I've felt moved to kick one of the cats, break mirrors, hurl Susan across the room, or physically strike someone.
My speech is further dissipating. Language skills are falling apart. I'm worried it's only going to get worse. Yet another symptom of schizophrenia. Sigh. The panic attacks have started again as well. No... not panic attacks. Triggering episodes. I'm going to call them what they are, because dammit, I take my disorder seriously even if no one else does.
I'm just so angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the world.
People try to comfort me by saying that I'm okay. That I'm a good person. That there's nothing wrong with me. This doesn't help. It's just denying that there's a problem. That's not what I need. I want someone to just accept me for what I am. But then I'm always hiding. There's always that divide. I'm good at it, too. For the past couple weeks no one's realized I'm in enormous emotional distress.
On one hand I'm friendly, charismatic, content. On the other I'm angry, self-obsessed, violent. On the other I'm small, in mortal pain, and screaming (no one hears). On the other I'm quiet, unwanted, unnoticed. I circle round and round, never finding rest.
Every day I go to school afraid that I'm going to kill someone. Every. Day.
I keep walking.
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