(I'm sorry if that title seems oddly distant from the rest of my journal. When I started out this journal entry, what was it, like thirty minutes ago--I went back at the very end of writing this whole post to do the beginning over again---the title somehow was going to relate. But I can't remember how or what it meant.)
So I was going to write out this journal entry, first last night, then earlier today. Both times I had a relatively good idea planned out of what I wanted to say (well, write). But its a rather good thing I didn't write because of what was going on.
So, as I've probably said this in way too many journals here, I've been depressed. Very, actually.
So its a good thing I didn't write.
Today is like an emotional hangover and I can't remember much of yesterday. Last night was a blur...no, I haven't had anything to drink/smoke/inject into my veins. Nothing that monumental happened with my emotions, either. But, without further due, I present to you, the latest:
Last night my parents watched a movie in the basement. Just from the cover, I could tell it wasn't "my kind" of movie, which basically means I don't deal well with any sort of violence or suggestion of it, nor anything unrealistically sad/happy, nothing animated, etc. So I sat in my room, quiet, trying to figure out what to do. I wanted to post a YouTube video, but I was sort of numb with nervousness because I kept fearing the worst and imagining it in my head, what would happen if my parents came into my room to see me talking to myself (the camera on my computer) about my gender questioning (which they don't know about in the first place). So I didn't. I sort of let go of my urges by watching the minutes change on the computer screen. 10:02 became 10:03. I was so depressed, am so depressed, that I can't remember too much else.
(Random tangent...when I first started my gender questioning, I had taken a raffle ticket, a gold/mustard-colored one, and wrote I AM NOT A GIRL in all caps on the back of it, which was the blank side. I had left it, accidentally, in my pocket. And then a day or two later, my Dad came up from the laundry room, saying I need to remember to empty my pockets next time, then, in his hand was that same gold paper. He knows how to read English. What are the chances he read it? I never said anything, he never questioned it, either. I guess we came to a silent conclusion of Don't Ask, Don't Tell).
So last night, I was so tired and so depressed but I sort of just stayed awake. Waiting for who knows what. Kept pressing refresh on my computer screen, awaiting new emails, new pms (no, not pms, PMs), anything, really. And I started to explore my feelings of how I don't have any good pictures of myself. And how in a way, I sort of wish I had crazy drunken nights because at least THOSE people have pictures of themselves having a good time. I, on the other hand, have zero interesting photographs of myself on the Internet. I know I should be proud of being sober. And for the most part, I am. But there's still that inkling of feeling within me of how I wish people would look at my pictures and say the same about me that I say about them. How I think about how these cannot be pictures taken under sober consent. And how I wish I knew how to be like that girl (SCRATCH THAT WORD GIRL) because she seems like she knows how to have a good time.
Instead, I find myself one step away from begging others to take pictures with me. And I know its not wholeheartedly because all I'm thinking about is how at least this picture won't be just Me tagging Me.
I've lost sight of why I'm complaining to you all again so much.
Today, well, last night, I sort of let my emotions get the better of me and made it apparent, as well as this morning, how I felt about that one girl. And how annoyed I was and everything. I got such a long note today online from her. Gah.
I was caught today (by myself) of thinking and regretting my decision of buying a binder. I'm just like "Well WHERE can I wear it if my parents don't know." But I just really want a flat chest. I just don't want to have to open a can of worms. And I'm sorry that this is all that I think about.
I told my therapist the other day that I don't think many people could survive in my head and she agreed. Just because of how many repeating thoughts I have. You know the movie Groundhog Day? Yes, that's like my head. And I find myself thinking how great it would be if the world was as predictable as that.
Anyway, back to the binders, I cannot wait for a flat chest. I saw a great shirt yesterday that I want to buy but I knew Mom would know it was a guy's shirt.
I got really scared this morning because the way the shadow cast itself on my body, it made it look like I had a huge black and blue mark right around my chest and I was so scared. Because I was like, "Bahh, I'm going to have to go to the doctor and show this and then I'm going to like DIE of fear." Yeah, I think in a logic statement known as "slippery slope." Anyway, I was so scared because I hate showing a doctor my body. And I hate having to look at it and ew it just grosses me out so much.
I have a weird thing where I can convince myself of anything. A blessing and a curse.
I have this weird memory lapse thing that I don't know what it is, but anyway, the other day, when I was at therapy, the doctor was like "How did you end up not hurting yourself?" (my urges were high but I didn't act on them). And so I was recounting for her the night before and I said the embarrassing truth, "I told myself I was going to act on it in five minutes and then I just forgot." Her: "Were you distracting yourself with something?" Me: "No, I just laid in my bed thinking about it and then I forgot. It literally left my head."
Maybe I should stop ranting, or is it listing, before I sound even odd-er.