I found this.

I found this tonight as I was browsing my old entries on my poetry blog. I never posted this one, I saved it as a draft after deciding I didn't want to post it. I'm glad I never deleted it. It's a lot of things I don't think I'd be able to analyze at the current. I think there are some good points in here, as well. It's long, but not too bad. I need to record it somewhere.

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November 13, 2008
I can’t concentrate, I can’t focus. Ugh, this is frustrating. My homework is piling up, and grading period is next week. I can’t afford to forget. Forget to work, forget to eat, forget to sleep. What is it everyone else nags you about? What you eat? The people you spend your time with? The risky, unhealthy, maybe dangerous and completely stupid things you do? Not me. No, I get pestered constantly about how much I sleep. Apparently, it is the cause of all of my problems. The reason why I can’t focus, why I get scars so easily, why I feel as though my heart keeps missing a beat, why my lungs seize the moment my heart stops, why my legs go numb almost instantly when I bend over, why I just can’t seem to get it together.

I’m past the whole depression issues, I think. Or, at least, I’m not thinking along that line anymore. But I am treading close to apathy, which has happened before. Yet this time I don’t know what is going to revitalize me, jump start my heart, push me back into the game. I can’t seem to make anybody angry at me anymore, which is odd in the fact that it’s frustrating. All I get is indifference, passivity, “Fine. Okay, if that’s what you want to do.” If I was a dog right now I’d be growling. I suppose frustrating is too light a word, then. Aggravating. Infuriating. Even more so for the fact that they are the ones who should be feeling what I feel, not the other way around.

But then I have to stop and think, ask myself “Why do I want them to be angry at me?” Perhaps I want to feel guilty about what I’m doing to myself, my health. I want to feel excruciatingly guilty about jeopardizing my own future simply because I can’t get it together, and in a way don’t want to. But they keep letting me. They don’t care. ‘It’s my future, let me do with it what I will. It’s my life, let me ruin it if I can.’ It just makes me want to cry out in frustration. Do they not realize how much damage I could actually inflict on myself before I ever think to turn around, before I ever get the idea to consider stopping my ruinous rampage? It may be my life, but for God’s sake, if they know so much better, if they have all that advice for me, why the hell don’t they act on it faster, sooner? Why the hell don’t they act on it at all. It isn’t as though I’m completely unreachable. I’m quite easy to get through to. But as soon as you abandon me, I abandon myself. I just want to scream at them “Don’t give me advice and then walk off, shrugging and saying ‘Huh, I don’t care, actually.’” It’s pointless. Useless.

Yes. Love, concern, worry, maybe even frustration at me as well. But it doesn’t seem to be enough to jump start them. What the hell will it take to wake them up?

I don’t want to kill myself, but I also don’t want that option to be in my hands. I don’t want that ability to be in my power. With power comes responsibility, with responsibility comes pain. Because it is pain to know what is right and what you must do, but not want to do it anyway. Who wants to live like this?

There will be those of you out there who want to yell at me that it is my goddamn life, I shouldn’t let others tell me what I should do. That’s weak, I know. Weakness. I know that also. But I know even more that all my life, I’ve been so tenacious in holding on to my independence, of not asking questions, of working without help, of going my own way. I’m not a follower. That is an absolutely foolish way to live. I know that, and you should as well. That isn’t strength. Hell, I don’t even know what strength is. It isn’t getting up everyday, though you don’t want to. That is passivity, resignation, indifference. It isn’t hiding your feelings, supporting yourself. That’s pride, fear. They can’t, even you can’t, tell me to be strong. I can’t be what I don’t know how to be. I can’t do what I don’t know.

Tenacity. That’s self-preservation. Independence is only fear of being let down by others, believing that you must take care of yourself because you can’t trust the world around you. Is trust the key?

Fear. That’s what governs me. Everything I do, isn’t it impelled by fear? The fear of losing something, the fear of being wrong, the fear of being forgotten. Doesn’t it seem ridiculous? Silly beyond words? Yes, but what can I do? What can I say? I’m simply afraid I won’t be able to do anything I ever thought I could, and so I yearn for someone to push me there, to motivate, inspire, remind. Maybe I’m afraid of becoming my mother, still sitting there, waiting for something, someone, to come. I’m afraid I’ll forget what it is I’m waiting for. I’m afraid to forget.

How did this evolve from lack of concentration? Wandering, rambling, completely independent mind. I shouldn’t begrudge it’s lack of focus. In a way, its out of focus, blurry perspective of the world keeps me better in focus, aware that I need to concentrate. I suppose I should have written this in my journal rather than here. That would have been wisest. But it would also have gone against the one thing I hold on to the most: that indescribable, incalculable, unstoppable need to not be forgotten, to not become invisible, ordinary, unoriginal, indistinct. I don’t know what else to do. If I could, I would completely ignore all the work I must do, all the papers, assignments, chores, everything, and just focus on the outside, on writing, on the words and the paper and the pencil. I would focus on me. Would that help? Yet, I can’t drop any of those things, because then I would have nothing left for me when I turn back to go inside.

So I guess I’ll never know the answer to any of these questions. Shame.

I do have a lot more that I want to ramble about, but obviously you don’t have all day to spend reading me. Whining, I suppose you could call it. Maybe I’ll have another post like this later, maybe. I don’t know. As I do on all posts of this nature, I congratulate you for your patience and fortitude. Even if you can relate to this, it is still arduous to read a lot of something with little or no entertainment value.

There will be poetry sometime after this post. I have been writing a bit, I have some poems available for posting, but I don’t think they are either good enough, or even appropriate for posting. There is always some little detail in them that prevents me from posting them. I apologize for that. I am a very nitpicky writer. And a garrulous one, as well. I am also attempting to undertake a sort of renovation of my book, trying to fill in the gaps to make it more of a story, perhaps even continue on in the plot from where I left off. It’s been around six months since last I added onto it, after all. I feel like I have neglected it. So, I’m going to try to pick it back up. This may reduce the amount of poetry I write, not that I’ve been writing all that much lately. That is, of course, if I start writing again. I’ve been having some computer time issues with my mom. It’s all very frustrating for me, but not anyone else. Of course.

So, for now, I’m done spewing my word vomit, all of which belongs in a journal. Most definitely belongs in a journal. Treat it nicely in your minds.