The Daily Durvy

When I was in High School I had a LiveJournal. Not only did I have an LJ, I updated it sadly regularly. And I had a small following of close friends. I didn’t tell my parents about it. (I also had a MySpace that my parents also didn’t know about. Though my MySpace was not as cool, and much more annoying.)

While at LiveJournal, I was prone to long, drawn-out entries that used sappy metaphors and euphemisms. I went for the tears, guys. TEARS.

My writing wasn’t bad. Reading back, most of the writing was very good and very cryptic. These days, I try to put a funnier spin on my life, because honestly, I don’t have enough pain to be crypic at this point. And when I did, I was in a downward spiral watching NCIS and crying on my bed. My blog was the last thing on my mind.

(Which makes me think all the “pain” I had in High School was more like a papercut. I mean, papercuts hurt LIKE A BITCH, but who are we kidding? They never killed anyone.)

(Except that once.)

Here are some hilights from my LJ days:

You never think about the slow build up of ill will, or that time you didn’t stay for dinner though you should have. You never think about the moment the last real conversation you ever had ended. You never think about the instant you locked eyes and you knew that this was the way it had to be. You never think about the instant you got your last phone call. You only ever think about the moment that you realized you didn’t love the person in front of you anymore. So you think that your life changed in an instant. You think that it all happened in a split second, when in reality it’s been forever and a day in the making.

You never realize that the instant when your best friend becomes the hole in your heart instead of the filling is really made up of eternity. You only remember that moment. And you cry because you’re life just changed in an instant. And you cry because your life can be changed in an instant.

I’m lost and I don’t know how to get home.

And not physcially this time. I’m almost always lost when driving, walking, and wandering.

But I always get home. I’m not so sure about this. And it scares me. More than being angry or hurt or sad. I’m scared.

I’m not afraid of much, but this tops the list. I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

I can’t read maps, and I can’t really tell time. I know I should learn to…

I just want to be home already.

Priceless. Price. Less.

I don’t mean to mock my younger self, but I am totally mocking my younger self. I was justified in my pain at the time, but let’s be honest. HAPPY IS BETTER. And WAY less cryptic.

Sometimes, in a fit of fear or panic or confidence or simply stupidity, I get so passionate that I actually do something completely moronic.

For example, I decided at the beginning of last year that I was a grown up and needed a nice, decorated grown-up apartment. I spent $250, 5 days, and most of my new roommate’s good will to paint not only my bedroom, but our living/dining room. It’s one of those “labors of love” that you look back on as a “labor of stupid” or a “labor of wasted time and energy and money.” And to think, it could have been a “labor of cheap rum and diet coke.” These are things that college teaches you. You know, the things that you’ll actually use later in life.

I have also been known to put “easy” papers off for the last minute. Take right now. I have a term paper due at 8:00am. As in, 8:00ASS-CRACK MORNING. Have I started? No. I’m not sure if this is a fit of confidence or stupidity, but I feel like I’ll know that by about 2:00 this morning when I’m struggling to write a conclusion about the heteronormative queerness present in Giovanni’s Room.

However, sometimes, in fits of sadness or fear or debilitating nihilism, I manage to do some very smart things. Some very brilliant things, even.

Over the past year, I have felt increasingly… not normal. At first I thought new birth control was making me cry all the time. I mean, pumping myself full of hormones seemed kind of stupid at the time anyway, and seemed to be the likely culprit. Who needs all that estrogen anyway? Every doctor I went to said the crying would stop after a few months. But after a few months, the crying didn’t stop.

I stopped sleeping and eating properly. When I did sleep, it was only during the day and only when I had something pressing to do. Nighttime was sleep’s worst enemy. I tried everything and anything; tea, television, exercise before bed, books, boring books, my roommate’s psych studies (DO YOU KNOW HOW HORRIBLE IT IS READING PSYCH STUDIES?!), having Alex spend the night, sleeping with Alex at Alex’s place, sleeping by myself at Alex’s place, the list goes on and on. I would start falling asleep just as day would break, and sleeping until dinnertime. And when I did sleep, I couldn’t get out of bed the next morning; the thought of people and school and simply eating made me curl up in pain and cry.

The list went on and on; I just stopped being happy. I stopped enjoying just about everything. I stopped writing here on my blog, I stopped drawing and I stopped watching TV. I just stopped living, to some extent. Doing something made me feel like I was wasting my time and doing nothing made me feel like a failure. Thoughts of suicide and running away and escape consumed me; and I finally went to see a therapist, with much prompting from Alex.

We talked, I cried, and then today I went to see a psychiatrist referred to me by the therapist. She asked me every invading question you can think of, complimented me on being so aware and articulate, and then prescribed me Prozac. I start taking them in the morning, and I have appointments with both her and my therapist when I get back from winter break.

I’m getting help, and I’m hoping, praying, living the need that it works. I think it will, because sometimes, in fits of extreme sadness and loneliness and with the help of Alex and TBRE and everyone else that lets me cry in front of them, I manage to do some smart things. Some brilliant things.