so . . . I'm starting a blurty . . . apparently it's the cool thing to do. really, though, I just haven't been posting in my livejournal at all recently. and it reminds me of bad times I went through (though I'm going through worse times now, really). also, someone I know in real life read my livejournal and I wasn't really comfortable with that anymore. so I think it's time to abandon that one and start over.
I don't have a lot to say right now, and it's midnight and I'm exhaused and I have to get up at six, so I think I'm going to go to bed.
(so no, I didn't go to bed)
I really feel like I totally fucked something up, that could have been so much what I wanted . . . but I also feel like it wouldn't have been at all anyway, and maybe it's just best how it is now. augh.
I feel fat and gross.
I think I'm a jerk.
a lot of the time I really feel like my friends don't know me . . . I think maybe I'm seen as a generally happy, funny person. which I'm not. no matter how depressed I am, I literally cannot stop myself from acting how I normally act around people, even when it feels so fake (is so fake). Whenever I'm talking to someone I find myself talking the way they do, using the same inflection, same terms as they do. I really feel a lot of the time like I don't have my own personality, my own way of being . . .
I'm leaving in three days to go on a band trip to Ireland and London for 10 days. I have a mark from when I cut on my lower arm a week and a half ago that I wasn't sure was going to go away by now, normally I don't cut there just at the time it was the part of my skin that's normally covered I could get to the fastest, so that's where I cut. but anyway, it looks finally like it's actually going to go away, which is great, because chances are my roommate would have seen it, I'm not going to sleep in my sweatshirt.
Today, my friend Amy randomly drew on my hand four lines, three parallel with one crossing them, which really creeped me out because that's a pattern I often cut on myself. it was really . . . odd.
I realized recently that a lot of my clothes have red or blue stains on the inside from when I used to write on myself with permanent marker. I still do, sometimes.
When I get back from my trip, I'm going to start seeing a therapist . . .
this is my first attempt at prose in a while . . .
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