Road Trip

I've a long list of things to do "when I get better." Recently, though, I've been doubting the day will ever come.

Though there are many things in which I feel lacking, including energy and motivation, what I do have is time. Lots of it. And I know that if and when I'm feeling better, I probably won't. I also was unable to get a job this summer due to unemployment rates and resulting number of people older than me who will willingly work in the fast food and retail industries, so most days there is nothing planned.

I live in a wide country, that, although it's becoming more homogeneous, still contains a vast number of different experiences. I've barely ever left my home state, and maybe there's nothing that's really left for me here. Maybe choosing my own ground will help me break out of this stupor; I don't know.



So I'm leaving Tuesday for around three weeks.

SI Stuff

Photo-journalism documenting self-injury in Japan (TIME)

In case you hadn't gathered it already from here, I've started SIing again. Regularly too, close to every day.

I'm refraining from posting too much about it, simply because no one really needs to know the specifics, just that I'm at it again. And I can't bear to even think about that trip to the emergency room right now- they didn't give me any painkiller whatsoever as they stitched me up. I know it's unlawful discrimination, but I was too drained in every way that night but to bite my tongue and cry.

I'll try to stop again, but I don't have the motivation right now. I need the cutting, and don't think I have the strength to give it up.

Please don't worry about me. Although I want to die, I'm not suicidal. I can't stress this enough.

Fictional

For my final project in English class, I had to create a portfolio of several pieces of writing relating to a topic.

I chose depression, specifically that of teenagers.

I basically took the contents of this blog, rewrote them into the third person, changed everyone's names, and stuck it in Arizona. In this alternate universe, my name is Allie. I also threw in a brochure about depression symptoms for good measure.

I got an A. First time all semester.

My teacher attached a note. To paraphrase: why haven't you done this sort of work all semester, blah, blah, blah.

And then there was this:

While the quality of writing here is exceptional, teen depression is not really
a school-appropriate topic.

I want to kick him. Because depression apparently doesn't exist outside of the realm of fiction, you know.

Less

humanity
him and her
them and you
people
connecting and sharing
crying and dancing
everyone
everybody
everywhere
every being on the planet
is a minuscule fraction of
humanity
but something is wrong
i am
something slightly less
than human
i am not
him or her
or them or you
i do not connect with them
or share
cry
or dance
i am less
than human
i am not
a part of
humanity

Inner Reality

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was an unremarkable girl, just like any girl you might meet. But she was a sensitive girl, and the world was harsh and corroded her.

One day, the girl was in a terrible car accident and shards of glass and gravel ground into her face. The skin would heal, the doctors said, but there was nothing they could do to save her eyes.

Of course the girl was very upset at first. But then she realized that blindness was better: she'd never have to deal with seeing the ugly things in the world- abuse, blood, or people constantly giving each other the finger in the streets. Things she couldn't see no longer existed to her.

Only pretty things were in her head. It was calm and serene, except when broken by the noises of the world.

A few years later, the girl was standing near a bunch of fireworks when somehow someone set them all off. The girl was much too close and again had to go to the hospital. Her burns would again heal, but this time her hearing was beyond repair.

As soon as the girl realized that she had become deaf, a small pocket of joy seemed to light her up. Now she couldn't hear the arguing and cussing and put-downs. These things stopped existing to her, too. The only things that were left in her mind were what she put there, and her inner reality was clean and perfect.

Over time, though, the girl began to run out of nice things to put into her head that weren't already there. Her inhumanly sweet friends had become dull. In the creation of an impossibly nice world, she had forgone human contact, as awful as much of it was, and so her only companion was herself.