Thursday, Jan. 23, 2003
why I'm so screwed up. Why I'm so unhappy. What really Happened. In short, the truth. I'm tired of living a lie
Grr!
Okay, so, I cannot believe my amount of bad luck today.
It's 10:00 on a school night before finals (worth 20% of my passing grade. I have to get a 90% or higher on them or else I FAIL all of my classes) on a day where I have to get up at 4:00 in the morning the following day. I don't have my Model UN done, I don't have any study materials for my finals, I kind of "skipped" school today.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I was really genuinely sick. I spent half my morning puking my guts up. But I still could've cleaned up and made it to my first real class if I wanted to. I got up at four am. I stopped being "sick" at around 7:45 am. First hour class is at 8:00 am. I live 10 minutes away from the school.
But I just took a shower and went back to bed.
I don't even know what to write my resolution on, and it was due yesterday. I think I'm going to write it on the aids epidemic in Africa, but I can't find Malaysia's opinion on it. They just give people free condoms and proclaim the rest of it over with. If I don't have this resolution by Tuesday (no school Monday, and if I play my cards right, I can avoid Dr Kerr tomarrow) I'm getting kicked out of Model UN. No scholership. No exchange trip to Khazakstan. No more Russian lessons.
As well, I've yet to study for finals. I have to take them for every single class. From band, business and tech, art, health, and algebra to English Biology and Model UN. It's not fair really, when you get down to it. Everyone has to take 7 at most, and here I am with 9 or 10.
But I don't mind. After all, the worse thing that could happen is that I could FAIL. No biggie. Really.
And then, here I am trying to research and study what I can with the occasional conversation when Cody calls. I get off to go talk to him, and apparently my mom goes off and tells everyone that yes, she may be the model un nazi, but she's smarter than she looks and everyone can pretty much go fuck themselves (at least that's what she told David A.). Great.
My boyfriend thinks I'm stressed out, and tells that I should go take a break and relax (great advice, really! and next time I speak, he can tell me to use my vocal chords!). Thus the precious distraction is cut short. I love you too Cody, but still, I think you're stating the obvious. And then on top of that,,, my mother thinks I have some bizzare mood disorder (oh you poor poor forsaken woman! I didn't have Tiffany tell her about the bipolar disorder, due to confidentiality, but still I wouldn't think that she'd be that dense not to notice!). On Tuesday, when I had my follow up to my cat-scan (did I tell y'all about that?) she asked my doctor to put me on Zoloft because I was being moody.
That, to me, is just unbelievable. I already take about 60 pills a day. I kid you not. I'm on Prozac (to make a long story short it's to take care of the PMDD), Valtrex (not for what one'd think it's for. I'm allergic to ANYTHING with vitamin C or anyother acidic substance in it and the V helps with that. I kid you not either, I can't even have kool-aide), Elevin (for my migraines), Perscription strength IBu-Proffin (700mg per pill, that's like taking 5 Advil at once), countless vitamin supplements, stuff for my Lactose intolerance, Allegra, and countless amounts of Benidryll. And that's when I don't have a cold or anything else. I litterally stand by the medicine cabinet for half an hour, and take all these pills so I can function normally. So I can even take a drink of something other than water (allergic to juice and milk products otherwise).
And the woman has the nerve to ask to put me on ZOLOFT?!? I'm already on prozac. Albeit a very, very small dose of prozac. But prozac is prozac.
I'm fucked up, and I don't even drive yet.
But where was I??
Derailment.
Who cares anyway??
I'm upset about it all though. I mean, she's my mom and she's all I've got. She's the reason why when I drive I get to go to CrossRoads (hopefully... *crosses fingers*) which is a wonderfull school for the arts in St. Louis. She's the reason why I havn't gone off the deep end and committed suicide (although God knows I've tried). But the poor woman is under these misconceptions. She's still married to Daddy because of me, supposedly, when he's the reason that my life is so miserable in the first place. She wants me to believe in God, and to go to a state university majoring in Business and join a sorority. She wants me to get married right away and give her Grandchildren and expects me to want all the same.
But I don't believe in God. I believe that some people have great faith in God because it gives them the hope of something better. Just the same as I do with all other religions. I don't think that necessarily makes me an athiest, because I do believe that there is something out there, but we'll never really know what. I believe in the basic concept of religeon. Be good, and good things will come to you. It could always be better, but things could always be much, much worse. I believe that complete hapiness is possible but that you have to work at it. Isn't that, when you get down to the very very watered down version, the essence of all religeons?
I don't want to go to a State University. I want to go to college in a school for the arts. Hell, I even go so far as to say that my very very dream come true would be to go to Guiliard. But Guiliard is a school for music, and apparently (or so I've been told) writing is my calling. But I have a great passion for music. I have a great passion for literature as well, but with music you can't get this... this almost indescribable feeling.
This feeling where you are a part of something greater than anyone could've imagined. Where you are a force, a driving force that pushes onward and onward and together with other forces you can go and move moutains. Where when you are there, you get the chills. You litterally become frozen in time. You are freezing cold, yet you feel flushed. Your toes feel like their going to fall off and your head feels like it's going to spin. Where you can't hear yourself think or play, but you can hear everyone together as a collective group moving thier fingers and breathing into certain funny-shaped metal things and it produces a sound that's just amazing. Where I am really honest-to-God happy. Where sometimes, you're doing something so simple as practicing the newest Cianni peice on the piano, and to you it sounds, melancholy. Almost sad. Tragically sad. Your fingers move, freezing cold and almost brittle against the ivory keys somehow keeping a time. Your right foot pumps up and down against the petals, and all comes together. Your head starts to sway as you move into a particularly sad bridge, and you find that there are litterally tears falling down your face as you play with more and more fervor. Your face contorts into a cry of pain, of utter sadness as you play the tragic theme, the classicly sad expression of the deepest pain that you know better than anything else. And you find yourself sobbing but play on. You suddenly become aware. Just aware. Aware of everything that you're doing everything that your feeling, aware of the chink in the G# above middle C. Aware of the TV blaring upstairs, aware of the radio that you left on in your room. And it makes you smile for some odd reason. You find this extremely amusing, and laugh. You laugh until you have to stop playing the lovely and alltogether hated contraption you're laughing so hard. And when the laughter stops. When the numbness goes away. When it's all said and done, you are happy. Perfectly content just sitting there on the piano bench doing nothing. But when you get up and start to walk upstairs, the cold overcomes you, and you find yourself fading back into the bleak darkness of your life all over again.
I don't think I ever want to get married, although I find myself questioning that every single day. Especially over the past seven months or so, if you get what I mean. I'm a terrible and horribly incorrigible person. I don't think I ever knew anybody (with the obvious exception of my mother) who could stand to spend five minutes with me before Dani. And even she got really frustrated with me very often. It amazes me that I can even manage this relationship with Cody. I love him dearly, I truly do. But I think that this boy has patience of steel. And he really loves me. I really love him. This amazes me. Someone, who's not my parents loves me. Someone even LIKES me in THAT way. He willingly puts up with my annoying inquiries and comments, and he enjoys it. I love the quiet moments we have together, when we're just holding hands, or we're watching a movie and I have my head on his shoulder, and he has his arms around me. I could stay there forever; just melt and quite simply be. He loves me as who I am, not who I'm going to be, and not who I was. Who I am NOW. He doesn't mind the mood swings, or if I get all pissy over something small. He thinks it's cute, and a part of my wonderfully eclectic personality. Even typing this up I'm smiling and am in Lala land, while tearing up. I'm tearing up because I never get this personal, nor do I ever let my gaurd down. Except around Cody. I let my gaurd down around him. I can't help it. It doesn't help matters that I only have one contact in as well. *laughs*
Never will I have children unless I suddenly and unexpectedly become pregnant. I'm terrified of screwing up my children like my parents screwed me up. To have my mom yell and scream at me and tell me that basically everything I do is horrible yet, go off and do the same thing that I had just gotten yelled at for. To have my dad always yell at my mom, tell her to punish me. And then when she sent me to my room, two minutes later he'd come in and play hero. To have him be the perfect father up until the age of ten when in a fit of rage he hits you. He hits you hard, and all over. In an attempt to save yourself, you scurry away and cower, covering your head with your arms. And then he hits again, this time your arms. He breaks your left arm. You can feel the painful sound it makes. Not once do you cry. To this day I have nightmares about the instance. He never apoligized. Mom came home and found me, crying and bleeding and injured, and rushes me to the emergency room. She has me lie to all the doctors and tell them that I got in a bike accident. Looking back on it, I can see now that they didn't believe her. Mom takes me, and checks into a hotel for the night. She leaves me there when I fell asleep and goes home. She told Daddy that if he even came near me again she'd divorce his ass before he'd even know what happened. We came back home the next morning. I didn't leave my room for a week. I didn't talk for a month. I didn't look at my dad until my birthday, when I was forced to. I still don't talk to him unless I have to. I have never in my life looked the man in the eye, as far as I can remember. I hate him. He's never even gone so far as to tell me to do my homework since then. He tells me he loves me everyday. And I know it's the truth. But that doesn't change the fact that I hate him. People like him are the people who'll go to hell one day. I have to lie and pretend I like him. Mom makes me pretend to love him. I have to smile sweetly and be his little angelic princess, the 6 year old at her ballet recital, and kiss him on the cheek. I have to pretend that everything's okay. I have to pretend that every time someone closes a door that I'm afraid that he'll jump out and hurt me like he did. I have to pretend to be normal. Is it funny if I have to keep stopping in the niddle of typing because I'm afraid that I'll short out the keyboard if I get tears on it? If I'm litterally sobbing while my dad sleeps in the room next door, snoring peacefully as though he were perfectly innoscent. I've gone to therapy for the past three-years and every time I go it's just delving up painful childhood memories. I tell people I'm bipolar to get away with being a little crazy. I shouldn't. I feel bad because I think when people find out that I'm just a hurt and scarred and scared little girl that they'll be hurt that I lied. That's why I'll never have children. I called a child-abuse hotline once. I told them what I did and I told them that my dad hit me. Just that. No details. No telling about the broken arm. They told me I deserved it. I once saw a lawyer about pressing charges, but I don't have the files or any photos or proof about the severity of things. I wasn't in therapy yet, so I couldn't even get emancipated or sue.
But things are better now.
They could be much worse, you know.
It could be like it was before.
And even now, as I sit here crying my eyes out and typing, my mother comes stomping into the room, asking if I have my model un resolution done. I tell her, no I don't have it done. She is yelling at me for not doing what I was supposed to do even as I type this. She doesn't care about weither or not I have this thing to vent, or weither or not I do the assignment. She just wants me to be happy. But her route to happiness isn't the same as mine, and she needs to realize that. But for now things are good. They're just the way they're supposed to be, I would guess. Afterall, things probably do happen for a reason. *VBG*
theparisian at 11:23 p.m.