Glass Ball On A Spindle

Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy.

I don't mean like, your stereotypical teenage girl who can't actually spell things in her Facebook statuses and says, "omg look at mee I'm sooooo socially awkward just kidding hahahahahahaha I'm adorable look at me look at me LOOK AT ME" because that's not crazy, that's seeking attention. Which is fine. I don't care. If you're like that I probably don't actually ever talk to you anyway and we're probably not friends. Which is not to say that we're not friends because I don't like you, it's just because I probably have felt uncomfortable around you in the past because there's a big difference between being a little bit goofy and cute and Zooey-Deschanel-style-quirky and actually being socially awkward, which I actually am. I try to like people like you, I really do, but I have problems liking most people, so don't take it personally.

But back to me and my crazy, and if you just look at the above paragraph, you might get what I mean. I see these things I write, and I read them back over to myself, and they make perfect sense to me. But they don't make perfect sense to everyone. My sister, for instance, would read that and be like, "What are you even talking about?" not because she has no reading comprehension but because I'm fairly sure she's never felt like that in her life. The Beauty has always been a being of grace and dignity.

I feel the need to justify things. I feel the need to justify my existence, to justify my mistakes, to justify the mistakes of others, to justify people I do not know and have never met. I feel the need to make sure that everyone is blameless, because sometimes they really can't help what they do wrong, but mostly because I just don't ever want to blame anyone.

I sit at my computer and prefer to interact with people there than I do to hanging out with them in real life. A select few of you, of course, I like in real life just fine. But for most people, I'd rather sit hunched over at my desk and type a hundred words a minute about why I don't like people than go and explain it to them myself.

I cry over people who do not exist. Some of them exist solely in my brain. It sounds crazy right there, but being a writer is hard, and you have to make the voices work for you. I don't hear voices- I don't see people who don't exist in real life- but sometimes the ideas of them, colors that fit together, outfits I see other girls wearing, symbols, names, personalities- sometimes they compress themselves together and pop out a person. And then that person is a character.

And sometimes- not because life is a truly miserable, hopeless experience- sometimes I want to die, because I believe it's going to be easier for me to exist on the other side of things.

I've been having epiphanies, over the past couple of weeks. I've had to sit down, take a few deep breaths, think about what's wrong with me and why no matter what good things happen to me or to the people I love I still cannot exist in happiness as a constant. Happiness, for me, is rare and fleeting. I hardly know whether it's going to be the same from minute to minute- no, second to second. Like right now, for instance- today has been a fairly good day, I had a small amount of ice cream and watched Battlestar Galactica with Superwholockmarauder and her not-boyfriend and Double M, and I came home and did homework and finished a lot more than I thought I would and then I decided to write a blog post- so in a good mood, right? And now all of a sudden I'm crying and wanting to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling because believe it or not, that is one of the most appealing things in the world to somebody who regularly experiences sensory and emotional overload.

My life is stagnant. I want to change something. I wake up and look at myself in the mirror and my skin crawls because I hate what I am almost as much as I hate bread with crunchy seeds in it. I wake up on days I don't have to work and I stare at my phone and I go, "Screw it, I don't care-" and then I end up sleeping until right before I have class, or sometimes not even going to class. I eat sporadically. I try to write stories but the ideas are weak and the characters are idiots and the settings are unbelievable and nothing is real, except for reality, which just sucks.

And don't tell me that I need to pray or read my scriptures or go to church. I'm human, okay? I work on those things and do just about as good a job as I do with everything else, which is to say, badly. A lot of you look at me and say, "Wow, you're so smart. You use big words. You play the piano and sing and write stories and read really fast and get good grades." None of those things mean anything. It took me a long time to learn how to play the piano, but I was lazy about it- ask my mother if you don't believe me. Everything I have ever done has been a half-hearted attempt. The only thing I have ever really tried very hard at was faking it. I am a liar and a cheater and I don't know how to work hard.

Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if I hadn't made a mistake in the past, if I hadn't screwed something up somewhere along the line. I wonder if it would be better, or if it would be worse. I wonder if there are different versions of me who know that somewhere in a parallel universe, if there are infinite parallel universes that stem from every choice we make, if I am just on the worst version of all the possible pathways I could be taking.

I have an obsession with wanting somebody to love me back. I just want somebody to love me. Is that so wrong? I know that I should be a strong independent woman who don't need no man- but being alone sucks, as you have definitely read me write before. It just sucks, okay?

And I just want to stop whatever is happening with me because I don't like it, I don't like feeling all of this bad in me and not being able to get rid of it. It's not Satan. It's not an evil spirit. It's not a passing effect of the blues. It's been this way for a while, really a very long time, and I have just been lucky in that I have been teetering and wobbling and trying not to fall- but my perch is so precarious, that someday I will fall, and I will land in splinters, and nobody will be able to put me back together again.

I'm done right now. Don't fuss about this. I'm making plans to see a doctor and ask about mental health issues. I'm not going so far as to self-diagnose, but I'm probably really not okay, if I feel like this. I will be better. It's just not happening now.