Friday, December 10, 2010

You shouldn't read this. I'm just rambling.

Whoa, so, I just happened to be reading the post after the 8th grade dance, and there's like three Anonymous comments that I never noticed there...that are somewhat, eh, bothersome. I would respond more in depth, but it was so long ago, and none of that matters anymore. So, yeah. I don't know why I'm writing this at all, actually.
Yesterday I hung out with Silver at 3-D art! Hah, I forgot to mention that. It was fun. Pretty much any day I don't go to lunch is a good day.
It's very hard to type now, because my knees are bent against the desk, and the dog is lying between my legs and stomach. So, yeah. I really have nothing to say here. Today is Friday! Not that I have any plans for the weekend, but at least it won't be school. That just makes every day better. Speaking of that, though, I feel like I'll just be sitting around the entire weekend, especially since I pretty much have no homework. And that's ALWAYS fun.
So I really don't like the whiny teenage girls who complain that no one understands them. They're not that complex. I mean, hell, I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty straightforward: simple things make me happy, and simple things make me sad. I'm needy, I'm proud, I'm shy. I like fighting for things. I like being right. Anyone who knows me knows me well. However, at the same time I'll say that sometimes I wonder if anyone who doesn't know me knows me at all, or if they have some ridiculous misconception about what I'm thinking and who I am based on the very little I do or say around them. See, I don't know. I can't really go up and ask someone what they think of me.
I mean, do people think I'm weird? Do people think I'm desperate? What image do I portray? I'm not naive enough to think it's positive, but I'm really as outcast-ish as I seem to be. I mean, yeah, my hair's unkempt, and I wear the same two hoodies every day, and I'm uber-pale, and I'm not the skinniest person ever, and I'm shy, and I don't know how to talk to people--but none of those sum up my character. None of that could tell someone if I'm smart or not, or honest, or loyal. That doesn't tell people that I write, or that I secretly want to be a revolutionary, or what I love, or what I hate. I feel like, as a whole, most people don't know anything about me, and when they have to assume they assume wrong.
Okay, I'm totally upset about that comment I never noticed. I mean, hell. I want to say Basil destroyed me, even though it's not supposed to matter. I want to, but I don't know if it's true. Why couldn't I have turned out the same if I had never met him? If I had sat at a different table in math? I mean, by saying that I could just be looking for an excuse as to why I'm such a God-damned loser. Being so all-encompassed with him made me forgot to notice other things, like how I was becoming, among other things, a social pariah of sorts. I wonder what they all thought of me. I mean, I know what they all thought of me. I wondered if they misinterpreted what they say, or if I really was that pathetic. All my friends thought so. Everyone thought so. How could I not see it? Or, when I did see it, why did I let it become me? I could say I'm not really that pathetic, but obviously I was. If I wasn't really anything I didn't want to be, then I wouldn't have done a single damn thing I regret today. And I regret everything. I regret things that happen yesterday. All the regret wells up inside, eating away at everything I do; the only solution I have is blocking out everything. Just everything. Every single stupid thing I've ever done. Every single thing others have done that hurt me. I just want to scream at people that that wasn't me, and I'm so normal, so just like everyone else. I want to take them by the shoulders and make them look at me and tell me what's wrong with me. There's nothing good about being this. I'm hyper-aware of every fault, but if I can just block everything out--block out my torrid memory, block out my all-consuming self-disgust, block out the grim and constant knowledge that I will never be like them, no matter how normal I am--then at the very least I can pretend not to care. Everything seems to speak to my own inadequacies.
And then I just want to ask people, God, someone hear me. I know it's my own fault. I know I'm expecting people to read my mind, because I never say it loud enough for other people to pay attention. Even my own friends. When I actually did talk about myself, I talked about him, because he made up the only part of me that mattered. Now they don't want to hear my talk about myself. I can't bring it up, I can't say it out loud. I love them to death, but if I didn't have them I would have to just bear it, and get through the day, and I would manage exactly the same way I do now. I let them talk about themselves. I encourage it. I want to help them. I want to go to Paris with them, and cry together, and laugh together. But I don't want it to seem like the things I care about are trivial, or shallow, because I squeal when I saw them, and act emotional--I'm not even emotional. I feel cold as ice all the time, because what I do portray as emotion is just so damn fake. It's what they want. It's what they expect, and I can't escape from that. I'm not "dying on the inside" or some crap, I just pretend so hard that I forget what I am and become something else. What they expect. Or rather, not, because what you do and who you are are the same thing; that's who I am, and it's pathetic, and if no one expected it then I wouldn't be it. I can never blame myself. Damn it. It's not others' fault that I am the way I am, but I want to say it is, because I can never be as real as I am when I'm alone. It's like, if they were filling in the blanks of who I am, they figure out most of the right words, but then the ones they have to guess they always get wrong. I'm so damn inconsistent. I'm all made up of nouns and adjectives. Where there should be a verb there's just a wish.
The funny thing is, if I had to go into the living room and talk to my parents, I'd be fine. Completely collected. I don't do it on purpose. I don't have a thing aganst showing emotion. Or maybe I do. Maybe I don't want pity. Maybe I feel like they wouldn't understand, or maybe, more likely, I just don't want to show them. It never occurs to me that I don't want people to see my cry, but it must be true. I don't know what the thought process is there. It's just instinctual; when others are around I wipe my tears and try to hold them in. Or I pretend I scratched my eye. Or I have allergies. Maybe deep down I'm afraid they don't really want to know, or it would just add to the whole "outcast" thing. I don't do it on purpose. But I must care, or I wouldn't do it.
Months ago, last year, I got into a fight with Kim on Facebook, and just started bawling. I couldn't even say where it came from. I never can. I just sobbed. People tend to blame me, in some situations, because I'm never the victim, I'm never the one crying, or the one who's hurt, because I'm the one doing the hurting. But I hurt all the time. Even when I don't feel it, I feel scarred from the inside out; scars that will never heal, because I don't know how to make them. And my mom heard me sobbing from the living room, and asked what was wrong, and I managed to stifle my tears for a moment and say I was fine, and run upstairs when she came in to check on me, or go to the bathroom--whichever it was--because I was afraid the red blotchiness on my face would give me away. I didn't want to have to explain it. I didn't want to face that I was crying, or I didn't want to remember why, or I just didn't want my mom to know. It breaks out, out of nowhere, but always when I'm alone; with others I feel just as pathetic as people have told me I am my entire life.
No, no, that's not true. I can't blame people. Some things are nobody's fault. Some things are my fault. But I can't blame other people on things that only affect me. I'm determined not to be a hypocrite, but it never works out that way. I don't even know what I am. And I guess that my question is, if I don't know, how can anyone else?
Okay. I'm done with this. Internet, swallow my thoughts. I have some questions to ask.


  1. Anonymous comments can really be creepy sometimes. I don't normally get any though, which is also somewhat disappointing at the same time.

    I think I can relate to what you're saying. I mean, I'm the type of person that completely hides it whenever something one of my friends does upsets me in any way. Or, rather, I just shove it aside and force myself to forget about it cause it's just not worth getting upset over, even though it usually still nags in the back of my mind. Now I'm rambling too. Oh, screw it. We're teenagers. We're allowed to ramble and be confused about everything cause that's just what we're supposed to do, right? :P Who knows... I didn't even say anything remotely meaningful in this whole huge paragraph buuut whatever!

  2. I love you, sweetie. If you need to talk...Or just a hug....You know where I am.