I started my online journal two years ago. it feels like I've been doing this for my entire life—there were some very, very long months in there. Two years doesn't seem like all that long (and since I've taken most of the archives down, this journal seems even shorter), but I've come a long way in the past couple of years.
I keep wondering how much of the change has been the result of me getting certain things together in my head and how much is the result of finally being properly medicated. I've made such great leaps forward in the past six months, growing up years at a time and stretching my new-found wings. I'd gotten so used to the depression that it had become normal for me to be trapped at one emotional age, only able to make the tiniest of steps forward—and those steps were always wracked with pain.
Some days, I'm angry.
Angry about all the years I spent only semi-functional. Angry at the doctors who, though I told them I was on an incorrect dose of medication, refused to believe me. Angry at the doctor who, when I told her that I thought that the birth control pills I was on were killing my sex drive, laughed at me. Angry at all the energy I spent over those years to look normal, to act like I was alive when, secretly, I knew I was already dead. Angry at the damage I caused to myself and other people. Angry because school was much harder than it would have been otherwise. Angry about all the years I spent hurting that could have been better used in happiness.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I'd been properly medicated five years ago. Where would I be today if I'd had the energy and the drive I do today? Would I have gotten myself involved in some of the situations I did?
and on the other hand, some of my best writing has come from the very depths of my depression. When your only real outlet is the words you have locked up in your head, you write and you write and you write in an attempt to get all of the words out. Depression took what was an unfocused talent and yearning in me and ran it through the fire again and again. I am a much better writer because I spent so many years in a prison of my own devising.
But I paid for that. There are ways in which I'm still very much a child, still very much an awkward teenager. Humans still puzzle me, fascinate me, baffle me. Sometimes, I still sit and watch people interact with glowing eyes, absorbing everything. I cannot ask you to tell me everything about yourself, though I wish I could. So I will watch you betray yourself by inches, glimpsing the intersections of public and private, and try to deduce who you are inside your own head.
The past year has definitely been a time for growing up for me. The year before, I hit bottom emotionally and spiritually, and this year has been all about rebuilding, listening to myself, and finding out who I am and what I want. The process isn't finished yet, but it's certainly a lot father along. and for the first time in a number of years, I can say I'm happy.
This is really pretty cool.
And as for the birthday itself, it was wonderful!
I turned 25 on Saturday, so I sort of went on a shopping spree—I bought myself a very nice leather jacket, a copy of the movie Labyrinth, a lunchbox that I stocked with art supplies, and a bunch of books from the Friends of the Library book sale. I spent a lot of time with friends, and I had a long brunch-that-turned-into-afternoon spent at FezGirl's house.
On Sunday night I went over to a friend's house to watch The Matrix on his amazing home entertainment system.
I now want to be rich so I can afford a home theater. Heh.
how on earth did I forget that I have a ticket to see Tori Amos next week! That's just the sort of thing that you DON'T FORGET.sounds like Cheetah (who I'm going with) wants to stand up close to the stage. Which is a change from my normal strategy (nosebleed seats, pair of binoculars, earplugs) so it'll be interesting. I'd better wear very comfy shoes, as I recall the floor of Key Arena being very, very hard.
I was halfway to Virginia (at least in my head),
when you came into my life,
and you took my hand and said,
"the rhythm that you're hearing
when you're frightened in your bed,
those are just your own little demons,
raining on your head,
so stop looking for the ax,
and in time your heart will mend,
the sky's not falling, Chicken Little,
the world's not coming to an end"
—Megan MetcalfeBest reason to document a city falling into ruin:
Because it makes for fabulous art.
how goes the war?
Playing a waiting game, today. The enemy is lying low.
