It's been a while, hasn't it, and I am thoroughly sorry -_- I've done exactly what always makes me upset when it happens in the blogs I read--I up and left without any warning whatsoever. But you also must understand, I am not the most consistent person...

I go up and down with pleasure, after treading numbness for a while. That's all these last few weeks have been filled with, that numbness...and college applications of course. And standardized tests, which made me purge for the first time in a month, an impulsive defense against whatever atrocious results I may have received. Not that it really matters; I flip my middle finger at the world, putting the image on repeat inside my head. It never gets old. But for every second I scream IDGAF, there's another second that's spent panicking in spite of myself.

Same old same old, I guess. Except I have a physical next Friday. I hope I didn't (hope I did) lose weight on that all-knowing scale. I hope they don't ask questions.

Every time I log on there are new followers.. I feel so popular XD

I miss reading all my lovely blogs, I've been so busy and not in a good way. I'm drained, directionless, and disillusioned by everything regarding the future. In all likelihood I will get into a goodenoughcollege; spend my days exploring the big city where it most likely resides; meet new people that fascinate me, excite me, make me smile...

Why is this not all so grand anymore? I've always dreamed of leaving this god-forsaken town, running like a madman out of dark hospital corridors and into the bright and shining world.

Why am I so numb? In one way it is blessing, that I will not crash and burn in anguish as I get rejected from every Ivy to which I apply. The people around me think it is a curse. I feel as if the wind could pick up my feather frame, more elvish every day, and carry me half-way around the world and still I would be fine. If M and I were gypsy vagrants, soaking in sunshine and raindrops, I would be just fine.

Starting this Monday my meds have been upped slightly, which I guess makes sense. So all this week I've been not-sad--more like an uncomfortable neutralness. I'm not sure how much I like it, but I've been getting better grades.. Which makes it worthitwithhoutadoubt, of course.






I've also been eating normally, which also makes me uncomfortable. I don't know, I don't know what to feel...

So I was looking at an assignment I was given in my Spanish class, meant to be in the style of a journal entry: What do you fear? And this got me thinking about things that I obviously couldn't write about for my Spanish homework. Because honestly, at this moment I can only think of one thing that I fear..
I'm not scared of heights or bugs or horror movies, nothing unfounded like that. I'm not even afraid of death or failure, not directly. I am worried, though, that I will use one to negate the other.

If I somehow teleported to the future and saw that I was alone, with a lousy job, and a chubby face, and an unfulfilling life, there would be almost no reason to stay on this Earth you know? I know that some of you would agree with me on this..

But what I'm really worried about is, what if I miscalculate? What if success and happiness was actually just around the corner? What if my vision continues to become distorted, and my life is just about perfect but I just cannot see it? What if my pupils grow wider as my hands grow thinner, what if the world becomes a fun house of mirrors and cackling laughter while i sink to my knees, nauseous, begging the spinning to stop
And it would be all in my head, and I would be finally blind.

What is a visionary? Is it someone who dreams of the impossible, of utopias far beyond our means but dreams of them anyway? Or is it someone who has ideas to make the impossible possible, someone who has built a blueprint of the better world that they seek.

Does a visionary have to act upon their daydreaming; what if they simply write about them in their diary, in a letter, to a newspaper, as a speech? Must they start a movement, must they create a revolution of the human race? Do they have to succeed?

What do visionaries, whoever they may be, think of the others who do not see what they see? Are they enraged or saddened or motivated by the wrongness of the world they wish to change? What do they think of the people, the naysayers or even just the ignorant--those that appear so blind, so painfully blind.

When no one around me can understand what I think, even when I tell them in the clearest words that I can manage, I feel so alone. Not only alone but insane; defective and wrong.

How can it be that the only thing I can believe in on this Earth, how can this fundamental truth be invalid according to every single person I tell?

Thank you all so much for just gracing me with your presence and your understanding. I know that all of you are struggling with the meaning and the truths of life as I am. I need you, at the very least, to keep me from believing that I am insane. Regardless of whether I am or not..

This may be my insanity talking, but I, for one, choose to name us visionaries.

I am failing everything and everything is failing me

Malfunction on half a muffin and spiked diet coke is how I function yeah, in my melodramatic suicidal teenage haze they say. I want to survive and I don't. I have given up getting better. My grandfather, I have recently learned, had depression. The grumpy old man wasn't missed by my mother when he finally passed; I, however, gave myself the excuse to open the first bottle.

So it's in my genes, my very being, to live in this tortured way. It is not getting better. I am a defect on the assembly line, a kink in our DNA. This is not a problem, this is a condition. An incurable disease.

My original post was erased.

So here is an approximation without words. And also, my ears are clogged inexplicably. So I am half-deaf and half-mad, and I'm having a panic attack. Just thought I'd let you know..

When I was being tutored for the SAT , one of the passages was about a girl who was the "happy one" out of her deep, twisted, depressed group of friends. They were all smart, funny and beautiful, but all not right in the head. I wish I had friends like that.

I wish I could be truly happy, like everyone around me. I wish I could shake off this torment, this questioning of existence. I wish I wasn't a masochistic and a perfectionist. I don't understand why I still want to die when I'm in a land of potential with parents and friends who take help me take advantage of it. I think, if I was a poor rural woman somewhere far away, birthing children in a hut...I know I'd already be dead. Have you ever read The Awakening?
Perhaps I am ungrateful, perhaps I am trapped--I don't know, and neither gives any solace. Look at me, having overcome my social anxiety. A success story with everything going for her, a paragon, a winner. Talking to everyone, laughing with everyone, joining in on life with everyone. So I'm not afraid of people anymore. But,
I'm still afraid.

I should be spending my time wisely, but I suppose I'm not wise. I'm uninspired to do anything, except perhaps write here. What is there to say though? Alright, here are the more mundane things that have been on my mind.

I have finally found the ecstasy of sex. It still amazes me that I'm not eligible to birth the next Jesus anymore...nope, any pregnancy would be due to carelessness; miracles are reserved for the innocent.

The medicine never lets me reach the pinnacle, but only since this week have I found it even remotely pleasant. Three months into nonvirginity; I was starting to get scared that I was permanently numb.
I wonder if I should tell my mother. Her opinions of me seem so innocent, so sterile...I don't want to tarnish myself in her eyes. In the same way, I won't tell M about anorexia. He knows about my cutting, my drinking, my depression, but not this. The bones that peak through my skin, casting shadows; the concavity of my stomach when I lie under him; the sharp, feminine jawline that he's told me he loves so much... I refuse to darken his eyes.

Sometimes I think I am working myself to death. Sleep and food collide into an abyss of half-existence--I barely know how many hours I've slept or remember what I've eaten last. Is that faintness I feel? Or just me being a detached ethereal being, as always. I can't tell. Am I losing weight or staying the same? How skinny am I, to others' eyes? Do I look like I'm dying? Does something else give it away? My frozen lips, my frantic hands, my lifeless eyes. I

can't tell.

Purgatory

I wonder if I should tell my therapist about this blog. No doubt, it isn't conducive to my progress "forward."
But I love all of you here. I love reading about your lives, your thoughts. I love how kind you are to me and to everyone and anyone in need. I love how truthful you are, how candid and real. I love your eloquence--no matter how much some of you may deny it, every single one of you takes my breath away with the beauty etched on my screen. And I love how strong you are, we are. On the edge of a cliff, teetering but steadying ourselves before its too late. Surviving, despite such fragile souls that almost seem meant to break.

I am so saddened to see people leave and abandon their blogs. Even if they are doing so to recover--for me, at least, there would be so much to miss. And then the others that go to the hospital and never come back...then the sadness becomes painful.

This place is purgatory. People come and people go, but this place never changes. It is a netherland veiled by fog and limbo, a place where lostlings huddle in the dark for warmth.
We are all lost here.

I despise English teachers. Painfully stupid sorority-type girls who, with every ounce of stupidity they lose, gain a gallon of bitchiness. To study to become an English teacher, or even that major in general, is laughably easy and I bet they had ample time to procrastinate with partying. Now they are obsessive mothers who enjoy being pregnant every other year, and get extra money by bullshitting their way through a school subject. I am a bionengineer that loves to write, and it almost embarrasses me to know that I have some connection with them.

Writers, however, are another species altogether. Writing is an art with severe restrictions, trying to convey the unexplainable with mere words. When one is compelled to express something so vast, it is because one yearns to be understood. Is tortured by it, is detached by it, and is lost--so lost--in it.

Anyway, excuse that rant. I've decided I need a set of goals to adhere to this year.
1. Don't die. (intentionally or accidentally)
2. Try to do well in school without punishing yourself for every misstep.
3. Don't go down a spiraling abyss of addiction that will violate the above.
4. Don't push people away.
5. Don't think too much. Or, don't go down the rabbit hole.

You'll be free child once you have died,
from the shackles of language, and measurable time.
And then we can trade places, play musical graves,
till then walk away
walk away
walk away walk away

I went to therapy, the first time since last school year. A new therapist, but a friend of my old one so it's ok. They both have said that I seem bright. They both had met me with a hint of puzzlement, hidden but I could see. Prodding me, trying to figure out why I was there.

I don't have relationship problems. My family isn't scarred by addictions (I doubt my mother's furniture hoarding counts, comparatively). I was never raped, thank the gods, and I live in a town that is clean-cut and poised to nurture a bright little girl.

But I cut, and problem drink, and restrict and occasionally purge. I write in a blog within an Ana Community. I too often crashcrashcrash, and I wonder how anyone could survive without these things I cherish.

Yes, I was trapped in a manipulative friendship for years, but that's more than twelve months into the past. Now my life is perfectly normal--or simply "perfect." I doubt it could get any better, putting regrets aside. I am ontherighttrack, with everything to gain and nothing to lose.
So what's wrong with me?

"I always like to ask my patients what they want to change in their life with DBT. What do you want to change?"
Nothing. This is perfection. This is as stable as it gets.
"I don't know."

Numb

I've never been so numb. I could cut for ever, and still find stone.

Eyes Fall Out

I am too aware. It is killing me inside, to observe the world around me as a sociological article expressing the patterns that seem so cliched to me (from reading "New York Times" excessively, no doubt). I see the college fervor in every one of my classmates--the AP and Ivy-bound, secluded to our own classes. Intelligent or at the very least fanatical, and cutthroat in the subtlest way. A pure reflection in the book I'm reading, Catalyst.

And here I am playing my part, being a sheep to all of it. Getting tutored for the SATs, ACTs, SAT II, APs like the comfortable middle class straight-A student that I am. Supportive parents that will pay anything for fluff and test improvement and practice books and any intellectual (college-recognized) thing I want to do. Watching my peers do the same, watching kids who are out partying drunk every weekend get into my rigorous classes because of their pushy parents. Watching the freshmen come in armed for it all. Might just be me, but I see a lot of superskinny beautiful young girls filing in. Dressing in the bohemian shirts that make them look even smaller, clutching books to their sides. Who has time to eat anymore?

And I am their role model. The Renaissance Girl of our time, yeah. Fashion, figure? Got it. Culture, intellect? Got it. Resources, ambition? Got it. Aren't I going places, the urbanite hipster who's got it allundercontrol just like the unsmiling, pensive girls sitting in a forest in expensive clothes in Urban Outfitters. Starving, most likely, but they are beautiful girls in beautiful drapery set against beautiful landscapes. Dream come true. There eyes beg of something more, but why ask for too much out of life? Dream come true.

"Can you open your eyes to wide?" she asked. "Because mine have fallen out of their sockets."

Back :D What a plane ride though, 14 hours in transit, with a cold no less.. But this is what I've learned in list form:

1. The younger generation, and the youth-oriented cities, are hardly different than America. Okok, besides the 17th century churches on every block in Moscow and the old palaces lining the canals of St. Petersburg. The malls, the cafes, the band posters...forget any thoughts of the Soviet Union for sure.

2. The fashion (did you know this was coming? XD) EVERYONE, I'm talking like one-third of the whole population, wears black leather jackets and skinny jeans. I was so exotic-looking with my long hippie skirt and baggie hoodie it was unbelievable, haha. The women are so tall and yet they *still* don 6-inch heels as if walking on cracked sidewalks in stilettos is a piece of cake. I, honestly, felt so short and pudgy next to them..
Oh, and just about everyone smokes as well. The only thing that makes me hesitate to go abroad to Russia is that I'd be so tempted to expand my bad habits.

3. I feel like Russia is still coming of age, shaking off the communist era as its youth grow up in a different world. The communist regime wasn't bad for Russians, but rather different. And now there are kids being born, such as my tour guides little son, who haven't even spent their childhood in Russia. I see on the street old women in layers and handkerchiefs, looking out of place--lost. And then I visit a classroom of young kids, talking about their videogames and their cellphones... It is just a world apart. I feel like the whole of Russia is holding its breath, neither here nor there--waiting for those unfettered eyes to prove themselves.

Gone for a Bit

Tomorrow I'm leaving for Russia. I've hesitating telling people because then they go "OMG! For real?!!" and then I feel awkward and sad because they are so excited but can't go themselves -_-

It's because my grandparents are world travellers, and they're taking me for a coming-of-age trip, and my dad for his fiftieth birthday. It's pretty exciting, but somehow not any more so than going upstate haha. Just having a new experience, wherever it is, is exciting enough. And I'm equally grateful that it will occupy my time, get me away from the insanity of empty summer days...

I also won't have internet for two weeks (!) I'm freaking out a bit. Such a dependent techie I am. I will miss you all, please don't do anything stupid when I'm away? <3

I'm sorry I'm such a whiny person sometimes, I really need to stop -_-

Despite my face being pimpled with red dots and the day being a bitter shade gray, I'm actually trying to be productive. Two days ago I had gone to Columbia's School of Engineering and fell in love with it. And here goes the internal dialogue again--"I can get in, I think...who the hell am I kidding? Scores...grades....activities...yes...no...."

Every other second I yearn to leave my dirty little secrets behind. These coping mechanisms aren't suitable for an Ivy League student. When I think of the young people that gave me tours, I usually marvel at how similar we are. Striving for greatness and idealism and saving the world, with wide smiles and never-ending energy. But take the things that hide behind my locked door, and suddenly we are a world apart. Somehow, some way, they can be perfect without having a catch.

I'm quite tipsy, oh joy. I sort of love excuses to destroy. It's kind of sad, but what else can I do? Masochism is the closest I can come to guilt.

Yesterday I told my mother that she is just like my nana, her mother. Who has a severe anxiety disorder developing from old age. Because she was freaking the fuck out at the smallest thing that didn't concern her and I couldn't stand the negative energy anymore. It wasn't meant to hurt that much. I'm sorry it hurt her, but I never apologized. And she noticed.

I am a guiltless soulless being, trying to substitute a purge for shame. It clogged up the train station toilet, and made me laugh inside with bitter insanity.

I am a horrible person who cares for nothing.

I will do that blogger award, btw, once I get my head straight.

I miss home. Ever since a few months, home has been defined as the haven where I can fall gracefully. Where I can bring melancholic truth up to an art form, instead of ignoring it and ignoring it until it bubbles up--which I then have to suppress as best I can.

I'm being good. I'm stable, taking three little pills precisely every day. No playing around with the dosage so that I'd be the equivalent of a crackhead one week, and depressed the next. Which was, frankly, fun to do and entertaining and a way to lessen the mundane. Nope, not this summer. I have too much college-geared stuff to do. It is essential that I am consumed by the mundane.

sigh But in other news, I am getting very annoyed and flustered at the fact that every scale I get on has a different number to tell me. I've known my home analog scale was wrong, but here at my grandmother's house is another, more modern analog scale. That says I've about reached my goal weight. But according to the last one I've got on, which I've kept in my mind as showing my real weight, I'm seven pounds heavier! It was digital, but it was months ago. This is damn confusing...

I guess it's not like it really matters. There was never a goal, really. I mean, I suppose I expected to work on maintaining. But what can I say? I'm addicted to extremes.

I feel like I should write more, but to tell you the truth I much rather enjoy reading all of your lovely words...

But anyway, yesterday I had met some old friends from summer camp when I went to their annual play. I had nice time and it was almost as if no time had passed...but there was something that was said that struck me.

One of my friends, A, is bipolar and has always been on meds, in therapy, and just on the brink of everything even while being the most cheerful person I know. She was telling me, rather unphased, how she failed junior year because of going in and out of hospitals so much, for attempted suicides. And I just want to cry, thinking how many times she had almost been lost forever in the short span that I hadn't seen her.

And then I think of myself--straight-A student striving for Ivies like her parents want her to, with plenty of straight-edge friends and a family willing to dole out money to make her as accomplished as she can be.

And she is also a cutter, a drinker, eating-disordered and haunted by depression's demons. She is not sure of her humanity and sanity, just as much as any mental patient is.

So what is the difference that has made our lives so separate, one spiraling downward and the other holding up the facade? I'm not entirely sure--perhaps I have lapses of clarity (or myopia?) that push me forward and make up for how often I trip and fall. Yes, it's nice to feel proud sometimes...but it never lasts long, and every time it's twisted into another reason for self-destruction.

There is one thing I'm quite sure of, though. I have the more dangerous disease. Suicide is outright depression, and I think everyone wants to move away from that point. But eating away at yourself bit by bit, all the while accepting praise and trophies from the other half of your life...you start to wonder, you know? You start to convince yourself that there is no problem--in fact, maybe you need both halves in order be who you are.

This feels dangerous, but

but


but


who could tell?

Back home, where I can abuse myself without care. I never intend on it, but habits tend to slither in my mind before I even realize. It's not helping that I've chosen to read yet another sad, wonderful book. Crank.

I want to splurge on pictures. Getting sick of words, you know?

My lovely morning. Purity with a sweet spoonful of beauty.

I want to feel love just like this

But I can't.

Sometimes I think lightheadness will melt my dreams into me

Other times I am just scared of it all

Is it wrong to think destruction can be beautiful?

But love life all the same?

Could I ever have both, you think?

Alas,

This may be all I know.