Okay, cool.

I’m likely getting my Xanax prescription filled later. That’s the kind of day/week/year/life I’m having. Cool shit.

I’ve been working on yearbooks for three years now. When I was in high school, it was a real solace for me. I loved design and getting to stalk people’s pictures and so on and so forth. In college, it’s hell. I get paid almost $500 a year for it (whereas I normally do it for free), and it’s still hell. We get no photos, no assistance, nobody responds to e-mails, and our deadlines are ridiculous. I had three pages due finals week, and the editor-in-chief didn’t answer my e-mails to her and later acknowledged there was no way I could have gotten them in in time due to a lack of photos and help. Nevertheless, my pay got cut.

The fuck.

I also have no idea what’s going on in my relationship right now. I can barely determine how I feel about my shoes today, let alone my nearly-half-a-year relationship. I am not used to dealing with things on this level, and it scares the fuck out of me.

Plus, he loves me, and I don’t love him. And the guilt from that is overwhelming sometimes. I just can’t feel it, though. I don’t feel it. I don’t love anyone or anything, honestly, including myself. The closest I ever got to loving was my mild addiction to a fat blue cat. And I had to kill said cat via lethal injection. Love is not my thing.

My fear of dependence is astounding. To the point, ironically, that I probably become dependent.

The gods like to fuck with my brain, apparently.

I’ve been going back and reading old posts, and I ended up deleting about 150 of them. This blog was approaching 500 posts. It’s now at 300 and something. Most of the deleted ones were stupid shit, projects I never pulled through on, mindless complaining. But I will admit I deleted some of the intense ones. I just didn’t want them there; they were not worthy of existence.

I’m also considering removing comments entirely from the blog. I probably won’t do it, but it’s floating in my brain. Sometimes I feel like all I get is nothing, complaints, or spam. And to be brutally honest, at this point in my life and blog, I don’t care what anyone has to say. If you want to have a conversation with me and talk to me, that’s awesome, but you may have to do it via e-mail now.

I don’t know. I just feel detached from the universe. Nothing is what it was.

I often feel like I have no friendships. I often feel like I don’t really feel. The only things I feel are anger and disappointment and stress. I’ve lost my appetite; I haven’t eaten since yesterday evening and it’s now 1 o’clock. I’ve even lost my sex drive, which means you know shit is bad.

I am desireless. I desire nothing. I want to lie in my bed and cry for an hour and then fall asleep and not wake up until March. That’s reasonable, right?

No. It’s not. I have no reason. I have no reason to be this unhappy. I am one of the most privileged people in the world, quite literally, and I am not happy. That is pathetic.

I get angry at the drop of a hat. I’m angry all the time. I don’t know why. I hate anger. I don’t know why. I don’t know.

Sometimes it feels like my soul has just died inside of me. At times, it seems I no longer have a conscience, no longer have any grasp on or care for the emotions of other people. I am some sort of demon. I have destroyed or am destroying my relationship with everyone. All I do is go to class, attempt to function, go back to my room. The old in-out no longer means fucking.

I am not living right now. I am existing. Floating.

Things will turn up. I know that. Years of going through this shit have taught me that. But right now, they are turned down, and that is just the fact of the matter.

Conclusions.

Reblogged from Cat the Beatnik:

I’ve always been a believer in self-analysis. When you’re a narcissist, you tend to promote the popularity of doing nothing but thinking about yourself. We all must admit: you lose a bit of culpability if everyone else is doing it too. And today, as I was greedily and guiltily consuming my third Krispy Kreme donut (No, I would not like to know the Nutrition Facts, thanks), I came to a conclusion about myself. So here goes. I am an easy person to like and an impossible person to love. Explanation: First …

It’s disturbing how this post is still completely true 3 years later. My mind is blown.

By Hands

This post is “unique” in that it was originally written by hand. (Yeah, you know me. Always keepin’ shit fresh.) I almost never write by hand anymore. As you can probably tell, I’m a pretty wordy individual. (Or, as many a person has told me to my dismay, “flowery”. Ugh.) Anyway, I get worn out really quickly when writing by hand, and I need to preserve my hand strength for the ridiculous amounts of notes I’ve been taking lately for class.

I wrote this while waiting for Astronomy class to start.

I think today was the first day I thoroughly felt like a college student – with each movement feeling natural or, really, ingrained. Routine.

I realized there’s a significant difference between being something and feeling like something. You can feel like a success even if you weren’t. Just look at most presidents. Likewise, you can feel like a failure even if you didn’t fail. Just look at most perfectionists. And although I have been a college student for nearly half a year, it didn’t feel real until today.

Today I realized just how much of a little automated college machine I have become: achingly perfectionistic [sic, I know], horribly detached. A history-psychology-astronomy robot. I am not fully interested in anything – or anyone – else. I am empty of everything that makes one human. When I cry, it’s like an oil leak, and I find myself unable to experience full or fuller emotions. I am never truly happy; I am incapable of love.

These words are too ugly and empty for this loopy handwriting of mine. Or, really, for anything at all.

-Cat

Open up the chambers

After what felt like eons of deliberation, this post is now public. Trigger warning for self-mutilation. You can tell it’s a fun one just from that.

The thing is, I said I’d be open, I said depression is nothing to be ashamed of, and if I hide the post that talks about how I hurt myself, I’m going against everything I stand for. So despite the fact that it’s slightly embarrassing to me and despite the fact that it’s hard to read, you can now all read the post about how I cut up my thigh. There you go.

Another big step I have decided to take is that I will probably give my boyfriend the URL to my blog. This horrifies me. But I feel like he’s earned it, as fucked up as that sounds. He essentially already knows everything that’s on here; he just hasn’t read the specifics. And he’s seen me in a state that no one else has, including my parents. I cried all snotty and gross and lame, and instead of flipping a shit, he just held me. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. It was a scene straight from some sort of romantic, these-guys-don’t-exist-in-real-life-haha-lol movie. That is a terrible adjective phrase, but you get it: he’s surreal to me. I’m not one for sap, but it really is astounding to find someone who likes you for you. Certainly not an overrated experience.

And if it can happen for me, it can happen for you. Even if Allen up and dumps my ass tomorrow, at least for that one night, he held me while I died inside. And if someone can like me in that state, someone can like you. The people who will hold you exist in this world; sometimes they’re just 355 miles away for a while.

Sometimes this world can be so beautiful. Even with its ugliness, its loneliness, the fact that I cried at all over nothing. Maybe the shift of things is something beautiful. Maybe the fact that people change and die and melt into the earth – maybe there’s a weird beauty to all of that.

Or maybe not.

I guess the thing is: I’m going to die one day. And I don’t want to die having etched into people’s minds, if only temporarily, that the world is a horrible place. And I don’t want that to be the only perspective I’ve experienced. And I don’t want to have spoken about openness and acceptance, only to lock away parts of myself to anyone. I fuck up. A lot. And maybe that’s the beauty of things: they are unexpected and messy and random and wonderful. Wonderful.

-Cat