March 20, 2012
I sat on my bed last night knowing the millions of pieces of homework I needed to get done and could not figure out what to do with myself. I stared at the floor, then a wall, then the ceiling. My sleeping patterns are a mess. Here they have school from 8 till 6 so I’m totally done by the time we’re home. Not to mention unbelievably hungry.
I’m reading The Lovely Bones and it’s conjuring up some bizarre thoughts.
I go home in 4 days and these cuts aren’t healing fast enough. It would kill me to have to explain this to my predictably sad and disappointed parents. “it was just a moment of perfect insanity,” that’s what I’ll tell them, none of this long-time depression crap. How does a girl with everything get depressed? “But I’m ok now,” yes that’s the line I’ll go with.
Writing is at least safe.
Writing = my hands staying busy and allowing my mind to sort itself out in a less harmful way.
It’s crazy to think that so much of what’s gone on in my life I’ll remember when I’m grown up. I never really thought about that before. I’m pretty good about having a selective memory but I guess there are something things I’ll never be able to just lose sight of. Is that good or bad? I think it’s like dreams, you can never remember the good ones clearly but the really bad ones can haunt you for a long time. I’ve had too many dark times; I don’t want each one to haunt me for my whole life. I’m terrified now. Denial and ignorance is so easy.
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