A lot has changed in a few short months. I was in the summer, now it is fall. I was a recent high school graduate, now I’m a freshman at college. I’ve made new friends, visited new places. I’ve changed. I’ve lost people. The worst part is that I don’t know if I like who I’ve become. The good part is that I’ll continue to change. I don’t know if I liked who I was before either.
I don’t like what I’m writing. Am I depressed? How can I fix that? How can I fix it all?
For a start, my sleep schedule is a nightmare. Not to mention the actual nightmares. I had squirrel traps in my bed, and the squirrels in them were both dead and alive simultaneously. I already find squirrels pretty scary. People think it’s strange, but I’m not entirely sure why. Sure, they can look pretty cute, but they’re very likely to have diseases, and they just seem unpredictable on the whole. They’re also bigger than you’d think, and stronger too.
Okay, my diet isn’t killer either. Both in a positive and negative sense. Today, for example, I’ve had a fair amount of water, but I’ve only had a cookie and potato chips for food. It’s past 5 pm.
I haven’t done laundry since arriving on campus just over a month ago. That part really bothers me. I want clean clothes. I feel so embarrassed not knowing what the fuck I’m doing.
I feel like I’m not presenting the version of myself I want to be. I seem too volatile and immature. I want to be witty, but mostly wise. I don’t need to take myself entirely seriously, but I don’t want to be the butt of the joke. The problem is that I don’t know who I am in general. How do I reconcile myself with the universe and with myself?
Clearly I’m in a dark place right now. I can feel myself dissociating from reality. I felt it at Sunday’s jam. But then, how should grief feel? Am I really grieving? Of course, right? But I’m not doing it right.
There’s no right or wrong way. For most things.
I want a garden. I want to be a garden and to grow my friends and loved ones into a garden around me. I want to get my hands dirty, metaphorically.
I don’t think I’m a very good gardener.
I bought a miniature rose and named it after the grandfather I never got to meet, then neglected it and let it die. I don’t know what to do about that.
I ignore what I need to do until it’s almost too late, then either don’t do it or barely finish it in time depending on if I decide it’s “worth doing so last minute” or not. I don’t bother to think about how I’ve put myself in that situation.
I want to cry, but not here or now. I always want to cry, but never here or now. So I don’t, or I do with a lot of self-hate and resistance thrown in to the emotional pot.
Tears are what happens when there is too much emotion for your body to hold it.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be Alice, and to cry myself an ocean to sail across. To cry a salt water river, to build a bridge, and to get over it.
I get shivers and it makes me wonder if I’m so sad I’m sick.
I am sick, but I don’t always take my medicine. I don’t know why.
I don’t think I actually want to get better.
Who am I if I’m okay? Why am I acting as if that will ever be a concern? Unhappy people aren’t better than happy people.
Your superiority complex is a poison in your veins. You produce it, but it’s still hurting you.
I like my eyes. I like the freckles. I like the deep, muted green. It looks like our old chair. It looks like our old car. It looks old. I love old things. They’re comfortable. New things smell like factories and perfection. Old things smell like people and dust in the very best way.
You don’t need this. Why write a train-of-thought piece for people on the internet to read? It’s just another excuse to act like you have something important to say. Just another excuse to show everyone those same 5 pictures of yourself.
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Stop. Breathe. Release. It’s okay.
Really. It’s okay.
It’s not. But the piece needs a satisfying ending. This counts, I guess.
I could cry, and that would be okay.
The chair is maroon. The library is quiet.
My jaw continues to tense.
My head feels like it’s full of muddy water.
I breathe in. The mud settles a little bit.
I breathe out, and the water is just as murky as before.
Being angry at the mud isn’t going to help, Cec. Don’t be stupid.
Don’t call yourself stupid either.
I could cry, and the ocean would be brown and murky. I would sail my ship over it and try to see my thoughts like fish in the water. I won’t see them.
My head hurts. I should drink more water. I should eat something. I should get more sleep.
I don’t want to do the work of improving, but I want improvement to take place anyway.
I should delete this, posting it would be a bad idea.
I still haven’t decided if I’ll post this.
Thank you for making it this far. Please don’t worry about me. I’m not okay, but I will be. Things will improve with food and hugs. I’ll slowly find my place and my rhythm in this life and this world.
That was really for you, wasn’t it? It was.
I don’t know where to end this. I never do.
I wanted to post every week.