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Journal - 21/07/01
(Written in black on gray for easier reading)
(I think this more than makes up for the short journal yesterday. Please don't
read this if you have issues about depression or are going to flame me. I
really don't need that, my friends should cover for you in the abuse department.)
This sucks. And, as my loving little Ototo-kun would answer me, "Life sucks, deal with it." God, I'm having a mental breakdown day. But I am proud top report that I haven't given in yet. No crying or freaking out, yet. Probably due to an abnormal dosage of DragonTails and a hell of a lot of chocolate chip cookies. They're battling my 'dark mood' music which really isn't helping the cause.
Between this big deal with the nurses all striking up here in Canada (Reasons this is a very personal problem: a) My mother is a nurse, and b)She may be forced off of her job to strike by her union and dually fined $1000.00 a day -yep, you heard me right, one thousand dollars a day- for said actions in which she will have no choice but to participate), the slightly possibility that we may have to move that this causes, personal struggles, and a major case of depression, I'm not doing too good.
As in really not doing to good. I'll never actually admit this to my friends so I'll confess here and hope that they find this (and read all the way through before you start killing me, please), but I've started cutting myself again. This actually occurred before the entire nurse thing, that's just managed to make it worse. Sometimes when I get extremely deeply sunk into the pits of depression, I start cutting myself. It's unusually soothing to watch small droplets of blood well out of a tiny, shallow cut to fix it. Nice to know that something's working the way it's supposed to these days.
I told you I was disturbed. But no one actually believed me. What? The quiet goody-goody girl who's always cheery and smiling actually a depressed psycho? No, never! I don't really know. All I know is that there are 11 little scratch-cuts on my left calf, two on my thumb, and that there are at least 20+ scars that have faded or are in the process of fading on my right forearm, along with one on my left forearm and one on my right shoulder (Yeah, I lied, I've only cut myself twice before but that's where the scars on my arm came from. I'm extremely sorry, Britz, Tanya, Nicole. That's the only time I've ever lied to you and the only time I ever will. I've been killing myself over that since spring-break). And that I did a very bad thing the other day.
I was bored so I drew a picture of a warrior girl with a sword and colored the small blood smear on her cheek and a bit of the edge of her sword with a bit of the blood that was forming over my cuts. It didn't really matter, that stuff wouldn't have scabbed anyway 'cause I still had to peroxide them and put some of the sap from my aloe-vera plant on them. Shame on me.
I even took a little quiz that told me I was moderate to severely depressed. It says it's not to be used as a diagnosis tool, but when it tells you that you should immediately pay a visit to your physician or a trained mental health professional, that's not a good thing, is it?
I wasn't always like this, it started after my precious Ananda died (Yeah, I know she was just a cat and I don't give a fucking shit, kay?!!), but that was over 6 months ago, by all reports I should have healed loooooong before now. I dunno. Everyone should just be happy that I'm not going to commit suicide or anything like that. I love all my family and friends too much to ever hurt them like that. I suppose in a way I am also bothered by the lack of knowledge of the afterlife, I don't fear it, but there's just something intimidating about not knowing. And then there's the fact that I am slightly afraid of the pain.
Whatever, I'm sure you don't care, but there it is for all the net to see. As this is my personal journal, I figured I should be completely honest with this impersonal screen I'm writing to. The fact that it doesn't give a damn what I write is probably the only reason I was actually able to type my feeling out here. You tell me if I did the right thing.
But then there's always the worry, are you all real, or just something my deranged mind created so that I don't have to feel so alone. Am I even real? But I'll save those worries for another time.
Oh yeah, and check out the first chapter of Heavell, will ya? I'll give you a virtual chocolate-chip cookie.
Ja, Minna-san. ~Heather