And in case you were wondering I finished Season 2 several hours ago…
Right now I’m freaking out though. I’m in that frantic depression state where I’m panicking and thinking in circles and my palms are sweaty and I want to do not nice things to my arm. and legs. and my fucking ugly face. yea…. I’m there right now. So I’m trying not to think about it *resisting the urge to yank my hair out*
I watched about 2 hours worth of youtube tutorials for make-up and hair. One of those “my boyfriend does my makeup” videos. I tried to read more of my Iron Fey book but really I’m getting sick of Meghan. For Christ’s fucking sake she’s dumb.
I’m shaking. I would call Josh but He’s working out of town, his phones on silent, he has to get up early tomorrow, and he’s sick, as well as being depressed himself.
I did the background for a painting. I hope it comes out better then the one I’m covering up.
I can’t think of anything else to fucking do right now that will take my brain somewhere else. So I’m here. I’m trying really hard not to do the circle thing. About how much I fucking suck, and how much I fucking hate myself. Because I don’t want to hate myself. I really, really want to like who I am. But instead all I can think about is how much I fucking hate my stupid fucking face and my stupid fucking muffin top because I’m too much of a fucking fat-ass to stop stuffing my face. I hate how I’m never going to go to real college because I was too fucking stupid to get on the pill. I hate my my stupid hair and my stupid brain and my stupid body. I fucking hate how I never do anything right.
But it’s not true.
I know that.
I fucking know that I’m not just some whiney emo fat-ass and I know I need to stop ragging on myself. What’s my fucking problem?? I love my smidgey I wouldn’t trade her for a bachelor’s degree. I’m not stupid. I graduated college statistics when I was 17 and hormonal. I read myself Poe when I was 9 I started Shakespeare when I was twelve, the only reason I waited that long is because I started Romeo and Juliet when l was 10 and thought it was fucking retarded. An opinion I still maintain. I read this shit for fun. Not because I was required to. Stupid people don’t read anything for fun (unless it’s the hunger games).
I’m not fucking fat just because I don’t have a scale right now. And making sure I stop to actually put food in my mouth once a day isn’t pigging out. neither is putting sugar in my tea or whipped cream on my coffee. I don’t have a muffin top, I have wide hips and tummy pouch that held my precious demon overlord for nine months. It hasn’t even been a full year.
I know I’m not a talented artist but I paint the things I feel and that makes them real and genuine, which plenty of “talented” artists aren’t. I might have pudgy cheeks, but I have clear porcelain skin that compliments them. My faded, grown out hair might look stupid but I’m learning how to style it and take care of it so it isn’t brittle and frizzy anymore. That’s why I haven’t re-dyed it. I’m not some super composed hard-ass edgy goth chick, but I’m definitely a cool alternative girl with style otherwise I wouldn’t get random compliments on my outfits and makeup when I go out, right?
I need to stop myself from thinking in that fucking negative circle. But training your brain to be happy is fucking hard. I’m getting better at it but oh my god right now I want to see, and smell, and feel my blood running over my arms.
No. No I want to finish my painting and listen to girly inspirational music like “stand in the rain” and “mirror” I want to read my dumb girly book and look up more youtube videos.
I do not want to sit in the dark and cry and think about how stupid I am for not being asleep when I can’t. I am going to be better. I’m going to do things that make me feel better.
Yes I’m going to stuff my face with candy canes and Hot Cocoa because each candy cane only has 50 calories so it’s not the end of the world if I eat more than one. I’m not fat. I’m not ugly. I’m not stupid.
I’m strong enough not to listen to the fucking voices telling me otherwise over and over and over again. I’m going to cry until I feel better. And then I’m going to keep finding ways to waste time until it’s safe for me to sleep. And if I keep doing this long enough, one day I really will be strong, one day I really will be a fucking “survivor” (god I hate anti-teen-self-harm-campaign slogans and adverstising and faux inspirational bullshit) and I’ll be that much more beautiful and interesting because of all the fucking hell I carry around in my head all the fucking time dammit. I’m not fucking up again.
I feel a little better now. Maybe if my mood improves just a little more I’ll be happy enough to start the book of circus tonight. *buries my face in my hands* I’m gunna get through this shit, like I know I can, like I (almost) always do.