i'm not really free, am i?

i remember sitting there, feeling like i was some caged animal. i longed for the taste of diet coke, coffee, and gum. i wanted to exercise, or at least be able to walk around without being redirected. i wished i had my cell phone, and Internet access, so that i could talk to all of my friends. i wanted to be able to watch whatever i wanted on tv, wake up whenever i wanted. eat (or not eat) if and when i wished. i wanted the complete control that i had at home. in those moments, i felt so homesick and miserable. i thought to myself, if i had that, if i could just have those things to hold, and abuse again, then i would be happy. i would feel free. i wouldn't feel so trapped and alone anymore.

when i first got out, i felt this huge rush. i was finally free. i remember my first sip of diet coke. it tasted better than ever before. i remember my first cup of coffee. how minutes later i was completely hyped up and feeling better than ever. i remember the first meal i skipped, how it felt so liberating and rebellious. the hunger felt good. it was something i missed while being in treatment, because in treatment i was always incredibly full. i took myself off my meds, deemed myself emotionally stable, and decided that i didn't need them. the mania felt good. it felt like things were back to the way they were supposed to be. i could go to the bathroom whatever i wanted, and if i needed to purge i would. i got exercise at night, in secret, for as long as i wanted. i felt extremely happy when i lost weight. i could feel more comfortable in some of my clothes. my stomach didn't feel as bloated, my face became less round. but in all of this "freedom" something happened. i became more withdrawn. in treatment i hated the feeling of loneliness, but now i was creating exactly that for myself. i became completely isolated; almost afraid to go out and be around people. the physical affection from my family that i once desperately wanted was now something that i couldn't stand. the hunger i once viewed as good, as a choice, now felt like something that i had to have, that i didn't have the choice because starving was something i HAD to do. the taste of diet coke became almost sickening because i started drinking it so much. i started drinking so much coffee that i felt like i would throw up if i had one more sip. i felt like i couldn't talk to anyone about my feelings, even my therapist. as horrible as treatment was, i could talk to people. i felt close to people. i could trust them. i wasn't ashamed of my emotions, my quirky personality, or the mistakes i often made. because i knew that it was all just a learning experience, no one was judging me because they all had their own faults, they were all dealing with shitty situations just like i was. but now i am so self-conscious of the littlest things. i beat myself up over the smallest mistakes. in treatment i got used to not looking in the mirror very much, but now i look in the mirror so many times a day that i can't even keep count.

my point is, all of these things that i longed for and missed, that i thought would make me happy, that i thought were liberating, are the things making me miserable now. i feel more trapped now then i ever did in treatment. i may not be physically locked in, but behaviorally and emotionally i am locked in a barbed-wire cage and the key is no where in sight. my hands are tied behind my back. it's a struggle to breathe. i know that if i don't get out of this self imprisonment, i will die. i'm not naive. i don't still believe that i am invincible. i am not happy. i don't feel free. as hard as this is to admit, i would rather be locked in a psych ward than to be held down so forcefully by ED.

regret.

lately things have been really rough. i don't know how i got so off track. i hate to be so hopeless and negative all of the time, but i just feel like such a failure. like, i knew i was going to relapse as soon as i got home. i hate the fact that all i can think about is losing weight and being sick. i recognize that it is just an escape for me now. it allows me to focus on weight, calories, food and exercise instead of focusing on what is really going on. at sheppard pratt and renfrew, they basically forced me to focus on trauma and other underlying issues, which i thought made things so much worse. i didn't want to talk about that stuff. in fact, i wasn't ready to. but they didn't care. the only way i was going to be able to leave would be to talk about it. it put me in a really uncomfortable position. either i stay quiet (and sane) or i tell them everything they want to hear so that i can go home. it was a really difficult decision. but finally i just decided to talk. i was so sick of being there; it was like prison. but now i'm really regretting my decision. they told me that if i didn't make significant progress i could be there until christmas, which would have really been hard, but i think i would rather have that then bring up all of the stuff that is just making things harder for me now. before i started talking about it, i wasn't bothered by it. but now it's all i can think about at all. it's tormenting me so much! i wish i could just go back in time and take everything i said back. my life at home is almost exactly the same as it was before i went in. and i hate that! i'm honestly sick of being sick, but i just can't get control of the disorder. i don't know what else to do. i just don't know how i could be so stupid!!!

silence.

sitting here alone has made me think a lot. about life. about love, if such a thing even exists. about recovery. right now i am just at a stand still. i'm not sure what i want, do i even want to be healthy? what would that even look like? there is this huge part of me that feels deserving of sickness and misery. and even though logically i know that it isn't true, somehow i can't let the belief go. there are so many things that need to be said but every time i try to say them nothing comes out. i just stand there silent, looking like i have something important to say, but not able to muster up the courage to say anything. the other person just looks at me, puzzled. they too know that i have something i really need to say, and i think they know that i can't. because they don't ask. sometimes i wish they would ask, but what would i do if they did? i would probably just end up embarrassing myself. i think they know that. the silence bothers me though. i feel like there is some odd distance between myself and everyone i love, and no matter how hard i try i can't force myself any closer. maybe if i could speak, break the silence, tell them everything that has been holding me back for so long, maybe the distance will diminish. but i feel like i will never know because i just can't.

nothing has really changed..

somewhere in the back of my mind i knew that nothing was going to change. i sat there in treatment, i wrote every day, trying to get everything off my chest, trying to rid the baggage i was carrying around- somehow i couldn't. it felt like i was chained up from head to toe. no matter how hard i tried, i couldn't have any relief from the things that were tormenting me inside. everything felt so hopeless. i felt like i could never be in control of myself ever again. i was too broken to be fixed. my world was crashing down all around me, and i wasn't strong enough to hold it up. at that moment i realized nothing was going to get any better. and now things haven't changed a bit. self-fulfilling prophecy? maybe..

Lost..

I know I haven't posted in quite some time, so I figured I would give it a shot.

I've actually stopped writing pretty much all-together. It's really sad actually. The motivation just isn't there anymore, which doesn't usually happen.

Right now I'm just fighting to even tread water. My life has become nothing but an eating disorder, and I am finding it hard to do even the most simple things like clean my room or do the laundry. Yesterday night I vomited involuntarily for an hour after eating a rather normal meal. It was the scariest thing to me. I could feel my heart beat in my stomach, and my head would not stop spinning. My hands shook terribly and I found it nearly impossible to even speak. I laid down on the couch and fell asleep, which is something I never do. I woke up to my mom's fingers on my wrist, checking my pulse I assume. To me, that is rock-bottom. I feel so guilty because I now know that my mom is genuinely scared that I might die. It's weird because I'm not the thinnest I've ever been, but I feel much more unhealthy than I ever have before. I guess I'm learning that I don't have to be thinner than I was before to be sicker. Each relapse takes a lot from your body, and I guess the human body can only take so much..

I really don't know what to do anymore. I feel like I've lost everything that makes me human. I can't write, and can't complete simple tasks without getting distracted or tired, I can't be 'normal' in social settings, the smallest issues send me into raging fits and bursting into tears. The only things I can remember are how many calories I've eaten and how much I weigh. My life is literally nothing but an eating disorder at this point.

I'm pretty sure that I'm heading off to Sheppard Pratt soon. My mom had to do a phone interview yesterday, and I get my lab results back early next week. I will be sure to keep everyone who wants to know updated on the situation.

I haven't written in a while, I know. I've been really struggling, which sometimes makes it easier to write, sometimes harder. Right now I'm not feeling well at all. I have a headache and I'm so nauseated. It's definitely not fun, but I know that it is my own fault.

I'm not even sure what to write about.. I just feel so uninspired here lately. I want to write something amazing and moving, but I don't even think I can anymore. I feel like a huge chunk of my brain has suddenly somehow disappeared. Logically I know that hasn't really happened, but it sure does seem like it.

It is the most awful thing I have ever felt.. I'm usually very good with words, but recently things have dramatically changed. Sometimes I can't even find the words to make a complete, coherent sentence. I know everyone is going to say, "That is because of your Eating Disorder," but I don't think that is the case here. Before Remuda I was the sickest I have ever been, and I wrote exceptionally well. I wrote better then than I do now! I really don't understand what has happened to me. I have been experimenting with some drugs, but not any that would affect my brain function this much. Being brain-dead is my WORST fear, and I'm afraid that it is slowly becoming my reality.

Everything is so confusing. I don't know where, or who, to turn to. I don't want to live the rest of my life like this, but I honestly don't know what else to do. I can't cope with reality on my own. I've tried. As I've written about before, I've never been able to handle every day situations very well. So I think that I can honestly say that I have never known how to cope any efficient way. My coping mechanisms have always been screwed up and somehow destructive. Writing is the only thing that even begins to help, and that is slowly fading too. I just don't know what to do. If I can't write, I won't survive. I know that sounds over-dramatic, but I'm completely serious. Writing has saved me from death more times than I can count. It was the suicide letters I wrote a few months ago that stopped me from actually committing suicide. It was the letters to my best friend in the world that kept me trying for as long as I did. It was the thousands of journal entries that has kept me from slicing my wrists open and spewing blood all over everything. It was the self-narrating in my head that kept me from running away when I was young and missed my dad. I started writing in my head even before I knew how to spell my name. It helped me sort things out, things made more sense when I strung words together either in my head or on paper. I never once decided writing was something I wanted to try doing, it always just came naturally. And when all of the sudden it doesn't come naturally, I freak out. I know a lot of writers get 'writer's block' but I never have. I've always had something to say, even if it is temporarily irrelevant. So needless to say, I don't really know how to deal with not knowing.

I catch myself wishing things could be the way they used to be, until I realize how screwed up that was as well. I guess I just want things to be somehow different. I wish I knew the words to explain what I want, but I don't. Therapists and doctors and friends and family always ask me what I want, and I never really have a solid answer. It's especially annoying when they go so far as to ask me what I need. If I can't even be sure of what I want, how the hell am I supposed to know what I need? I just hope that someday I will live a relatively 'normal' life. Meaning: have a solid career, have a family, go to church, be recovered, be happy more often than sad, have a better understanding of myself and the world around me, and most importantly, still be able to write. I know this may sound silly and insane, but writing is probably the most important thing to me. More important than even my own family. I know that may sound awful, but family will hurt you and eventually die. Writing won't, at least it shouldn't anyway. I think that even when I get too old to speak, I will still be writing in my head. I think that even if I shall forget every word I know, I will still somehow find some way to write. It's in me, in my soul. It just hurts me to know that I may be losing the ability to write well. Anyone can put words together to make a paragraph, but not everyone can make it become alive. And though I am not generally proud of myself, that is one thing I am proud of. My ability to turn simple words into actual beings. Things that provoke feelings and inspire action. Things that sometimes take my own breath away without returning all of it. Things that make even the worst days seem moderately tolerable. Things that have kept me alive for years when it was easier to just give up and die. Things that sometimes make me question my own existence. Things that have taught me more than any person ever could. If I lose that, I lose everything.

This feeling is sickening. I don't know how to explain exactly what it is I'm experiencing, but it's something like inspiration and failure, at the same time. Is there even a word for how that feels? I would like to know it, and use it a little more than sparingly. I think I am going to get in the shower, but I'll probably end up writing more later on tonight.

Unsettling.

Sitting here, listening to music feeling sleepy, and yet I know sleep is no where near. Every sound is so intense, every move I make feels so alive. I don't know what to make of this type of sensitivity. My throat is dry, and yet I have no desire to drink anything. When I stand up to try and walk, I feel so dizzy and unsteady, but at the same time I feel so graceful and so very alive. Some people call this an escape, but at this moment, I see it more as a re-awakening, a chance to feel so alive even though in reality you are the farthest thing from it. My eye-lids feel so heavy, but they always refuse to stay shut for long. Although I feel pretty good, I still feel like there is something unsettling resting deeply inside of me. Hoesntly, it may never go away. There may not be anything strong enough to rid of it, and I guess that's okay. It's not like there is anything I can do but accept it...

Monsters.

I guess this has become a regular thing, staying up till odd hours in the morning, smoke cigarette after cigarette and writing. I can't really complain, though.

My mind is racing. So many thoughts, so little capacity. I honestly feel like I can't hold any more in my brain. My memory is taunting, I have such a hard time ever letting anything go. You would think that would be a good thing, and sometimes it is. Just not at this particular moment.

I have been reading (?) this creative writing book called, "What It Is" by Lynda Barry. Today when I was looking through it, something really popped out at me. The page, full of amazing drawings, read, "What is a monster? Where do they come from? Where do they go? Why do they leave? Why do they come back? True or false: wherever there are people, you will find stories of monsters? Why? Do we need them?"

I believe a monster is something, anything, that taunts someone. When we're little, they come out at night when everyone is asleep. They hide under our beds, in our closets, in any place we find dark or scary. When we get older, they come from anywhere, many times uninvited. They continue to hide in places we find secret, dark, or frightening. When I was young, my dad told me that once an adult finds out about the monster that is scaring their child, it will go to monster jail. Monster jail was guarded by 1,000 big, strong men who were experts and keeping monsters out of our world. Now that I'm older, I know there is no monster jail, and when an adult finds out about my monsters, they become even more resilient about going away. Sometimes I believe they leave just so they can trick you into thinking they're gone to leave. And when they come back, you will be crushed, and I think they love this. I also think that they sometimes don't want to hurt anyone, but they feel like that's all they're good for. But eventually, they feel sad and guilty enough to leave you alone. I think monsters have feelings too. There will be stories of monsters where there are people because I think people often times create monsters. Some are born from fun. Others from people wanting something scarier than their own reality, something they can compare their shitty lives to and say, "There are scarier things," when, at the time, they really don't think there could be anything more frightening. However, they want to. They want to believe that things are not as bad as they seem. I believe that most monsters are born from pain. In example, 5 years ago I was in a lot of pain. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to leave school, but the only way that would happen was if I was sick. So, I went into the bathroom and made myself sick, which gave me what I wanted. At that moment, I let a monster enter in. I didn't know it, not yet. That's another thing about monsters, they aren't scary until you don't feel scared. They take advantage of the fact that for once in your life you feel okay. Monsters are taught from a very young age to never let anyone feel okay. Most people have some sort of monster in their life, and I'm pretty sure it's been this way since the beginning of time. Maybe the monsters are supposed to help us grow up, to see that eventually we have to choke back our fear, and ignore the monster. Send them to Monster Jail, let the 1,000 men handle them, and forget about it. After my dad died, my monsters stopped staying in jail. They kept getting out, and coming back to me. Maybe the gaurds were the special souls of the big, strong men, and not an actual human being- my dad did say it was a different world. And maybe when my dad died, his special soul died too, leaving 999 special souls to keep thousands of monsters locked away. And perhaps that allowed my monsters to escape, one less gaurd meant a little less security. One less parent, also meant one very sad, hurting child. Monsters are born from pain, so maybe my old monsters were still locked away, and I gave birth to new ones. However it happened doesn't matter much now. Now all that matters is the fact that they are still here. Quite honestly, I don't think even the largest monster jail could lock them away now. I've given them too much power- over me, over authority, over resposibility, over relationships; they're just too strong. Maybe one day I'll fight back, deprive them of power just the way they have slowly done to me. And yet, maybe they'll kill me before I have the chance to do that. I'm not sure. What I am sure of; however, is that they're too strong for me to fight on my own, 999 special souls just isn't enough.

I Didn't Just Land Here..

I'm sitting and thinking, how did I ever end up here? This madness that has become my life is so present that I find myself forgetting what life was like before today. However, when I really think about it, I realize nothing is much different now than it has always been.

I am wanting more than anything to be older, which is really nothing new. I never lived in my childhood. Even when I played with my toys, I was not a child. I pretended that I was the mother of my baby dolls, that I was going shopping for my family as an adult, that somehow I was much older. It's hard to look back on those times because I am painfully aware of how different I have always been. I fully understood what sex was by age 7. I understood health insurance, jobs, marriage, divorce, death, life, by the time I was 6. Maybe I was just intellectual, curious, smart, aware. Still, somewhere in the back of my warped mind, I feel that no child that young should feel that old.

I sit at my window, taking long drags from a menthol cigarette at midnight, ignoring the pain I feel inside. I watch the smoke float out of the window, and think, 'things just aren't right. ' I try to divert my mind from calories and weight, which I always find to be nearly impossible. I try to remember a time when I thought about other things, and suddenly realize that those things weren't any more pleasant. I recall a memory from age 7, sitting in a corner crying. My mom and I had an argument, and I was devastated. It wasn't over anything all-too-important, not on the surface. I used to have terrible temper tantrums. I would scream and yell and kick and bite over the silliest things, seemingly. I remember as I sat trembling and sobbing in the corner, my mom told me something I have not since forgotten, "Stop acting like you are some wounded child, like you are terrified or something. There is nothing wrong with you, no reason for you to be acting so selfish and immature." I remember exclaiming through my shaking voice, "You don't know me! You don't understand! You don't even care, so whydon'tyoujustleavemealonebecauseitdoesn'tmatteranyways!!" I wrote on a piece of paper that my mom didn't love or care about me, and that she probably wishes I was never born.

I still sometimes find myself thinking that what I wrote on that paper was true. Logically I know it isn't. She was wrong, though. I WAS wounded, in ways that I feel like she is unable to comprehend. I WAS afraid. I DID feel like there was something terribly wrong with me. And, the last thing I wanted to be was selfish and immature. I realize she said those things to make me think, to keep me from rationalizing that the way I was acting was acceptable. I also realize that she didn't know how personally I would take that remark. She didn't, and may still be unable to, see that a huge part of me wanted to believe every word she said. I constantly told her that I hated her, and didn't care what she thought of me. This was one of the biggest lies I told as a child. The problem was, I cared too much. I hung on every word she said, and tried as much as possible to make her happy. Eventually I began to feel like nothing I did would ever make her happy. At that point, I decided to give up. As I said before, the littlest things would set me off: something out of place in my room, a change in schedule, dirt on my pant leg, losing something, my sock feeling weird in my shoe; any of those things would send my little body into a fit of rage, usually ending in my mom holding me down on the floor to prevent me from hurting myself, trying to stay calm as I screamed, "I wish you would die!" Did I really want her to die? No. I had already lost my dad, and deep down in my small mind I understood that she was all I had. Maybe that was the catalyst to all of my frustration. Maybe it was the fact that I felt like my insides didn't match my outsides. Maybe it was because I thought she loved my brother more than me. Maybe it was because I wanted to hurt her with my words, just like she had done to me. It was most likely all of the above.

I couldn't make sense of the things going on inside of my head and I wanted more than anything for her to understand. Yet, somehow I knew she never would.

Things never really changed inside, although my outwardly, self-destructive behaviors often would. Eventually I learned that it was better to take out all of my painful emotions on myself rather than those around me. That's when, at 10 years old, I purged for the first time. Which is how I got to where I am today.

I take the last drag of my 2nd cigarette in a row, and put out the but on my inner arm. Forever a reminder that things haven't changed a bit...

Word Vomit.

Words. They are sot of my thing. The keep me sane, alive, they keep blood pulsing through my veins. With every beat of my heart, there is a word. Something, anything, spilling out of my soul. Sometimes it becomes too much and I can't keep it inside any longer, and they spread across the paper in a manic way even I can't comprehend, but sometimes they flow gracefully and smoothly across the page, making beauty from rubble.
If I've bottled up way too much, they spill out in a fit of rage. I punch the wall and words fly out, with every tear I cry, a thousand words leak out, never spoken, but always deeply felt. Sometimes when this happens I try to catch some of the words that are spewing profusely from me, but I can never hold on to one long enough to understand what it is, or what it means. So there I am, screaming, "You just don't understand!" While the other person, confused, softly asks, "Understand what?"
Sometimes I wake up at odd hours and panic quietly to myself because words are trapped inside, begging to be let free. I grab a pencil and pad, and hastily write all of them down. I look back at the paper full of incoherent sentences, and become unbelievably upset because their sum is equal to everything, and yet nothing at all. I want to scream until I remember what an odd hour it is. Eventually I fall asleep again and wake up the next morning feeling somewhat empty, but more so full.
The words never seem to leave, no matter how many times I write them. Words are everything. Every single goddamn thing I see has one or two meanings, and or connotations, attached to it, even something useless. I know that it should be a blessing, but at times like these I feel it to be more of a curse because I end up spewing words all over someone I hardly know, and realize I am in no shape to clean it up.
That, is my word vomit.

My house is not a home.

Family life is sucking right now. Every one is so combative and unwilling to communicate, it's awful! I am trying very hard to stay away from my mom and brother as much as possible. They wonder why I'm so screwed up, but never look in the mirror.

My brother said the most awful thing to me yesterday, so awful that I won't even repeat what he said. All of it was true, but he presented it in a very insensitive way that would make even the strongest person upset. I felt like my innards spilled out on the floor, my world shattered, and it was all I could do to fit them back in and glue everything back together. I cried for what seemed like ever, and for the first time in a while, cut. I only made one slit on my right wrist. Shallow enough to not hurt me, but deep enough to keep the pain at bay. It actually scared me a little bit.

I haven't eaten an actual meal in two days. I want to, but it's nearly impossible at this point. I just don't want to deal with all the anxiety I know eating would bring. I've been begging my mom to let me go to boarding school, but she is being very adamant. I can partly understand her hesitation, I have given her quite a few reasons to worry, but I feel like she should at least let me try. I feel like I would just be so much better without her in the picture 24/7. Even though Remuda sucked, I was the happiest I have been in my entire life. The only factor that was incredibly different was her absence. I know that sounds awful, but it's true. We have "mismatched personalities," and we've clashed for as long as I can remember. I think she knows this, but doesn't want to admit it.

I'm so ready to be independent, even though it surely doesn't seem like it with my behaviors right now. The only reason I am acting in such a way is because of my mom and brother. I know my restrictive and self-destructive behaviors don't help y case, but as of now it's the only thing keeping me from flying of the handle.

Right now I'm at my friend Krista's house, which is a huge relief. Her family is amazing, and so accepting of me. It's so comforting to know that when things get unbearable, or even when they're good, that I have somewhere to go. Her house is more than just a place, it's a family that I often feel care for and love me more than my own. There are no words to describe my gratitude. I honestly don't know what I'd do without such an amazing friend, and family, to lean on. I would probably be stuck in the psych ward, and I'm not over-exaggerating.

As of now, I really don't know where I'm headed. I'm kind of just walking the line between normality and insanity, waiting for a quick, powerful wind to push me one way or the other. If I don't go to boarding school, if my mom keeps me at home and treats me like a child, I feel insanity is where I'll end up. Quite honestly, I feel like I've been waiting for an excuse to go completely insane for years. I know that sounds weird, but it's true.

Hopefully I'll find something other than my eating disorder to do this summer. My memory of last summer plagues me, and it's kind of hard to move on. I'm going to try, though. I plan to spend a lot of time with friends this summer, which will temporary occupy my mind. I hope it will occupy it enough to avoid relapse, but right now I'm not sure anything could.

Enough with the pessimistic attitude Erin!! This summer will be fantastic, and even if it isn't, it will still be a fantastic learning experience. (:

Livid.

Yes, that would be true. However, I was worse last night. It was the first time I have gotten that angry in a really long time. Today has been better, but I'm still pretty angry. Right now I'm sitting in the Media Center listening to "Bare" and writing this. Anyway, now it's time to go.

To be continued...

Questioning Existence.

Things are horribly awful, and awfully horrible. I really hate to say this, but there is a part of me that wishes i would've just died. That the scary skipping beat of my heart, the stabbing pain, the inability to breathe, the involuntary vomiting, the passing out, purple limbs and lips would have killed me. But no- for some reason I don't quite understand, I lived. The question I ask is, why? Did I live just to sit here crying and being force-fed all day? Is that even fair? I think not.

I feel like I've lost everything to this stupid Eating Disorder, except the one thing that allows the ED to continue to exist- my life. I feel completely souless, mindless, heartless. I don't even feel like a person anymore; instead, a tangible Eating Disorder. Nothing helps anything anymore...

I really just want to disappear off the face of the Earth. It may sound selfish, but can you really be selfish if you don't fully exist? I definitely don't; I wonder how long I haven't. In the past, even in my ED, there have been times when I felt okay. This time is different. This time I really don't feel human. I wonder if this is what true insanity feels like- eternal disembodiment. Could I really be trapped here forever? If so, will I get used to it?

I want to cry and laugh, feel pain and relief, shout and whisper, attack and embrace; all at the same time. I want to dip down intho the bery depths of insanity, and yet fly alongside the completely sane. (Do they even exist?) I want it to be summer and winter at the same time.

I question why I'm not dead, and come up with nothing. How long can this go on before I kick the bucket completely? Will I ever kick it completely, or will I always live in a state of contridiction, always half dead-half alive but never succeeding in either one?

Bordem Kills; I'm almost dead.

I'm seriously sick of being so bored. I really need someone to kidnap me! There is never anything to do but school work, sleep, and eat. It's getting so annoying and ridiculous. I'm pretty sure I can't deal with this for much longer. I do write a lot though, and that helps some. I've written pages and pages of narratives; I may post some on here if time allows. (which it should!)

I would really love to go to somewhere sunny and warm, instead of sitting in a cold room all day watching rain drops slide down foggy window glass. It gets depressing, which is hard because there is really no one I can talk to about it. I haven't seen my therapist in almost 2 weeks now. I really don't even remember what life was like before therapists. I'm so used to seeing them that I feel I've become co-dependent in some way. It's really quite weird.

Anyway, that was my boredom rant, which probably bored you just by reading it! Haha, the irony is great. :D I hope you all have a great day, and next couple of days. As I said earlier, I will try to post some of my narratives.

xoxo, -erin♥

Insanity Exists..

Indeed it does, and it's with me right now.

I'm know I'm losing it; I'm certain it's only a matter of time. I don't know when and I don't know how, but I know that one day I will wake up to find myself somewhere I don't remember, surrounded by people I don't recognize, and realize that I'm completely gone. I imagine myself to be like Edgar Allen Poe, stumbling around in anothers clothes, inarticulate and rambling. It's already happening. If I sleep at all, I wake up mere hours later disoriented and afraid, thinking and speaking of things that I'm not even sure truly exist.

I keep waiting on something to happen, something to blow me one way or the other. To be (sane) or not to be? I know that is the question; however the answer is far from my lips, the tip of my tongue, and even my brain. The answer is floating around above me just barely beyond my reach. I just hope I can grow taller, and soon...

Introducing Her.

"Her" is "she", and "she is I. You can call me Erin, though. I decided to start a blog because my best friend has one, showed it to me, and I was all for it! So, here I am. I'm an aspiring writer/psychologist, and I'm a big 'dreamer.' There are so many things I want in life and in return from life. I have horrible impulse control, and I'm terribly obsessive; esspecially over words. I always have to find the right words, which isn't always easy. I am very passionate, and I can definitely see blogging becoming another thing I am passionate about.
I suppose I'm just me; I feel like I'm a bit hard to describe, and yet not indescribable. I hope that you all will begin to learn who and how I am through this blog. I want to use it as an outlet for myself, and others. As I said before, I'm an aspiring psychologist, so I love helping people. One thing that helps me greatly is when others share their similar personal experiences. Though I know this isn't helpful for all, my hope is that I can help at least one other person than myself by writing this.
♥-erin.