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.