The writer who sits at her computer with a head full of ideas but produces nothing but gibberish is hardly a writer all.

She wants to write about the loss of youth, her unsteady sense of identity, things throughout her day that make her happy, about the star she stared at for a good fifteen minutes because it twinkled and how much she hates being unable to remember her dreams.

This girl, this "writer", has so many things to write about but nothing comes out. Her words sound ridiculous. Her sentences look absurd. Nothing seems to be working in her favor when it comes to actually "writing" all this stuff out. It's tiring; the type/delete, type/delete, type/delete cycle she's caught in. It would make anyone dizzy, especially if they were as motion-sensitive as she is. 

One day of sense, that's all she needs. A teeny-tiny moment of clarity where things just kind of click and fall into place right under her fingertips. 

i can't stand to feel helpless. 

at all.

i would rather be anxious and crying and shaking and mentally unsound than feel helpless. it's a horrible feeling for me. if i feel like i'm helpless and unable to change something i don't just freak out. i internalize it and start to hate myself. helpless is synonymous with not good enough.

i hope no one reads this.

Oh, December.

The month of December is such a forgotten month. Somewhere between Christmas and New Years, everyone fails to realize that December is standing in front of us, waving her hands, screaming "Hello! It's me!" and since no one pays attention she resorts to her other device: the weather. If it isn't cold, it's windy. If it isn't windy, it's rainy. If it isn't rainy, it's snowy. Doesn't anyone see that December just wants a little more recognition as a month aside from all the greed and gimme-gimme of Christmas?

I've always held December above Christmas, and I definitely appreciate the sun on my face more than I do white flakes of acid-ice particles.

That's why I don't return those predictable and all-to-fake-sounding "Merry Christmas" wishes when I go places. Because, in all honesty, I really don't care if you have a "Merry Christmas". I really don't care if I have a "Merry Christmas". All I want is for it to be December 26th because although it's not a special day, I feel like it's the only day that gets recognized as simply being a day in December. 

I guess I'll stop here so the green little Bitch Grinch in me doesn't spoil your holiday. 

Celebrate what you will.

In my dream they were running running running and never getting anywhere. The tears in their eyes were rolling rolling rolling down their cheeks and their eyes were bloodshot red red red. I felt helpless being so far from them, though they were really only a few feet away. If they would have just stopped running I could've done something.

Pinocchio, the Girl.

I don’t want to sound poetic. I don’t want to sound beautiful. I don’t want to sound likeable.

I want to sound real.

            I feel as though there are a million and one ideas of me floating around the globe. Everyone has this masterpiece of what I am (to them) painted in their minds and those masterpieces are the only things that keep “me” in existence. Some of these paintings have things in common, but they all tend to be slightly different. I think it has something to do with my lack of consistency. I am not purposely inconsistent; I just have this horrible tendency to contradict myself because I am trapped in this twisted version of living in the moment. I think it’s best to call myself “situational” as opposed to saying I live in the moment though. There is such a positive connotation to that whole idea of “living in the moment”. It suggests actually living. It suggests not taking things for granted. It suggests that one is aware and in control of “living in the moment.” I, however, have no sense of control of the moment. I have no idea how I am going to react to anything, ever. If you take the time to sit and think of how detrimental this is to one’s existence, you would understand just how difficult every day is for me. I wake up knowing I know nothing. I go to sleep knowing that even after another day, I still know nothing. I suppose I should clarify that when I say “I know nothing” I mean that I know nothing about myself mostly. I can never predict how I’m going to feel about anything from day to day. I can never tell if I truly feel the way I think I feel about anything at the end of the day or if it’s just a temporary and fleeting feeling like usual. I have grown to refrain from ever saying I am sure because I know, even if I’m unwilling to admit it, that I am never sure. The tiniest of stimuli can send one of my decisions spiraling in the opposite direction and I know, from someone else’s point of view, this seems unusual but it’s who and what I am.

            I used to pass myself off as nothing short of fickle and relatively insatiable.  I expected my mind to change because I genuinely thought of myself as being impossible to satisfy. It wasn’t that I wanted more; it was just that I thought I was refusing to settle. I realize now I was just refusing to admit something was wrong with me. I could convince any and everyone that I was simply afraid of settling or that I knew I was capable of more, but at the end of the day when it was just me and my thoughts I couldn’t lie to myself. It’s amazing how much a person can hide from an entire world for so long.

            Now that it’s out in the open (so to speak) I keep expecting things to get a little easier. It’s as though by just saying “I am a Borderline Personality” I expect people, but more so myself, to completely understand what’s going on with me. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work. In fact, I would be lying if I said things have gotten easier at all. In all honesty it’s all gotten much more difficult. Instead of wondering what’s going on with me during my mood swings I end up hating myself even more because of how overwhelmingly helpless I feel in the entire thing. Despite whether it’s one of those days where my depression gets the best of me or a good day where I’m elated and actually happy to be alive, the feeling that none of it is real is reinforced. I live my life from one mood swing to another, as opposed to one moment to another. It’s kind of pathetic to think of “living in the mood swing” but that’s all I can do and I have to keep in mind that I am nothing more than my mood swings. I think, but that does not mean I am.

            So when all is said and never done, the only question left to ask is “so what do I do now?”Obviously my “now” is completely conditional and relatively unpredictable, but I can honestly and whole-heartedly say that I am working on it. There are things in my life now that I would have never imagined myself having, doing, or experiencing. I am not one to count on, especially when talking about what I’m sure of, but I am sure that I am grateful for these things and I appreciate them more than I know how to admit. Though my mood is not so positive now I can feel somewhere in my body that I haven’t completely given up yet. Though the idea of stopping here does have its appeal, I’m not going to yet for a few good reasons I don’t want to explain. Just know that this is all much more complicated than it sounds, especially when all you are to yourself is nothing more than just another fictional character in someone else’s story.

This is all so annoying; this see-sawing between the highs and lows of every day. The hardest days are the ones where I wake up resenting myself. Do you know what it's like to wake up hating yourself? To want to sleep the day away because you feel like you're not real? Do you sit in the shower unable to move because you're too busy trying to stop imagining yourself dying right there, naked and locked in a small room sitting under an insanely hot stream of water that you can barely feel against your pale, cold skin? 

Well, I do. And it's not something people want to here or know or believe, but it's me. It's real. It happens. I deal with it every day. Some days I get in my car and wonder if I'll get in an accident that will kill me. Some days I drive over 100 miles an hour hoping I lose control of the car. Some days I can barely drive at all. 

It's all so difficult. It's all so overwhelming.

It's all so real, and I am so imaginary.

So fictional.

So transient.

My thoughts have been extremely whimsical and fantastic lately. They're somewhere in the sky, on their way to cloud nine, dancing from star to star marveling at the suddenly possible impossible. I want to do everything. I want to be everywhere. I want to reach a level of omnipresent existence that will touch the lives of people everywhere. It's hard to keep myself from putting multiple exclamation marks after every sentence lately. Maybe it's because I've decided to sleep tonight. Or maybe its because I'm letting myself acknowledge things that are wrong. Or maybe something is off in my brain and this entire thing is some chemical accident. 

Either way, it's a good feeling. I think you might identify with it more if I call it hope, but hope doesn't seem to be exactly what it is. 

Whatever it is, I kind of like it.

I like having insane and unrealistic thoughts again. I missed the closet romantic that sat inside my head and narrated the events around me. 

It's a good thing. A good thing indeed.