This is my very first xanga drunk post.
No… I’m not of age, but I go to a very big party school. It’s expected (judge me bitches.)
I’m not too terribly drunk (I hope.) I have made myself throw up (yippie!) and have been drinking (some) water.
Today, though, was a pretty good day.
Classes were alright. Learned some things in my religion Gen-Ed class. Had a nice break time where I was at our Newman Center studying. I made some fun acronyms (as you may find out, my favorite study device) and drank some good coffee.
Then I went to Chemistry. Nothing too serious.
Then Music History Discussion.
For some reason I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering once we got to the real discussion section.
We had split up into small groups to talk about the assigned reading for the class. All was good in my group of 4 (including me and someone I’m good friends with) so it was easy. Then the class discussion started.
And my anxiety hiked through the roof.
In high school, I was “one of those people” that answered all the questions that I knew, raised my hand to read out loud to the class, and proposed questions based on my own notes/the assigned reading (a.k.a. the girl some people hated but loved because she would help them study for the tests.)
College has been a little different for me.
It was fine first semester. My music classes were small, I knew what I was doing in Music Theory… but I guess things didn’t work out there.
Now, I’m a struggling student with severe anxiety and depression (though few believe the depression part) that gets nervous when I answer questions asked by the teacher/professor that I know are right answers.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Well, right now I’m slightly tipsy.
I’m not sure of everything I’ve written.
I’m about to fall asleep.
But my mind is like “asdfghjkl; nope” so here I am. Writing on Xanga because that is my life.
One great big “I don’t know” and “What the fuck am I doing/going on?”
Tonight, a friend of mine stole my bell necklace (it was Saxmas, which is our celebration of Christmas even though it’s a month after the holiday…)
He was ringing it when it was around my neck saying that I had to make out with him.
If I didn’t hate myself and care for him as much, I might have done it. But I’m too disgusting as a person and I love him (friend-wise) and I know he can do much better than me.
So I want him to.
I would really love it if he followed through on asking one of my friends out. She’s gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. I’m honestly not just saying that because she’s my friend and all, but seriously. I wish I had her body and mind and spirit and light-hearted personality. She has been going through some rough times, but people (like me and my friends and my roommate) care about her so much (seriously, I love her so much. She’s one of my closest friends) and she should be with someone handsome, talented, funny, and good like my friend. They would be so adorable together, it would be cuter than the cat I will (hopefully) purchase and adopt next year.
Let me say and let you know that is a lot since I have an addiction and severe love to cats. Especially Lenny. He’s SO CUTE.
But at this time, I find myself only accepting the “love” of two people/kinds of people.
One is guys I don’t know/have emotional attachment to at all.
I feel guilty for this one since New Years didn’t follow the whole “emotional attachment” thing.
I kissed a good number of people I really care about that are some close friends to me that evening.
I’m pretty sure that most of them know that “hey, it was New Years, fuck it,” but one of them… I’m pretty sure he knows, but at the same time, I worry, regret my drunken decisions and hope that they don’t hate me for it later.
But I’d be okay with hooking up with a guy that I know well enough to be comfortable around, but not so much that I’d feel like I’d have to be friends with him and talk to him afterwards.
#peebreak #Iamstilldrunk #brb
Feeling slightly better. I hadn’t starting peeing until late into the night. Although, now many things are much clearer now, I can still admit that I am drunk after peeing and drinking two cups of water.
It isn’t enough.
I can’t wash my face twice a day otherwise my skin will dry out too much even with moisturizer. My acne won’t go away because I guess my face sucks, I touch my face too often (even though I have been trying to avoid it) and I hate my skin. My fingers are fat. My belly is big. My thighs are twice as big as my roommates. I’m so hard to live with. I honestly don’t know why I exist. Maybe I’m here to make people feel better about themselves because my life is so fucked up, I’m ugly, and I’m stupid and untalented.
People think I’m “so great” because I made it into the saxophone studio here.
Honestly, there are two reasons why I got in.
I had a trial lesson with the professor here before my audition. It cost me $100 (fuuuuuck.) By the time I came back for my audition, the professor here saw how I had improved and taken his teachings to heart and grown over the past month. He saw that I could be taught. That’s probably the main reason why I got in.
Not because of talent. I’m a good musician, but not saxophonist. I suck at saxophone. I can play piano and sing my heart out, but saxophone… it’s a respectable outlet since I didn’t continue receiving classical training on piano.
I wish I had.
I was a piano prodigy as a child. My teachers told me and my parents again and again. Then my mom died and everything fell apart.
I’m just not meant for this earth.
Not in a good way. I’m to be the stepping stone for others. But that’s good too.
I’m alright with that. I would rather know that my peers and more importantly friends were happy, successful, and feeling fulfilled with their lives.
Life moves on with death.
In some ways, I’m already dead.
It isn’t sad. It isn’t heart-breaking.
I would never want people to think, “Oh, she was so young and had so much to live for,” or “It’s such a shame.”
It could be a shame to my family, but to me, it would be so much more than that.
On my tumblr, I made post during “suicide awareness week” about my “struggle” with suicide.
I talked about how it wasn’t a way to escape uncomfortable feelings, life, things that make you sad, and so on.
It’s a way to take away the pain.
To me, though, I’ve come to realize that it’s so much more than that.
I like the fact that I’m a cutter, I take anti-depressants, that I struggle, that (literal) puzzles help me to stay focused on life, that I contemplate on taking my own life.
It’s not to escape. It’s not that I’m “just sad”. It’s not something most people would understand.
I want my friends and those I care about to succeed more than anything. More than the value I place on my life. I want my friends to achieve their dreams: become doctors, music therapists, professional musicians, pharmacists, psychologists, astronomers, businessmen/women, anything. I want their happiness. I would be so incredibly happy dying for their happiness, it makes me cry from joy.
I would readily give my life for someone else’s, whether I knew them or not.
I often think about those who have the misfortune or unluckiness (however you wish to interpret fate) of being diagnosed or put in a dire situation. I think about all of us who are suicidal. I wonder how many of us that are suicidal would give our lives, our healthiness, to those who are less fortunate, in place of our own lives. I would readily give my life to someone, old or young, so that they may live this life that I can’t seem to be happy with.
That would give me the greatest joy.
Dying knowing that I saved someone’s life.
That makes me think of that Will Smith movie: Seven Pounds.
I remember watching that for the first time spring break of my freshman year with my now roommate Avery.
I cried so hard.
She did too.
At the time, I cried for many reasons. Most of them for the same reasons she was crying. At the same time, there were other reasons I was crying that I don’t think she would be able to understand.
She’s beautiful. She has a wonderful bond and connection with her family that I envy.
I wanted to be in Will Smith’s place.
Giving up my life so that my body could be used to help save someone else’s life.
Would I do the kind of research Will Smith’s character did?
Probably, knowing my perfectionist personality, my desire to let my God-given blessings live on through those that were just and moral, and being so OCD over the whole situation.
Only one person knows and UNDERSTANDS my OCD.
Most laugh at me when I tell them that I have minor OCD.
“You’re room is messy, how can you be OCD?” and “You’re not as organized as some people that I’ve met/known. You don’t have OCD.”
… Fuck you assholes that don’t know me or OCD.
Explain my color-coded, alphabetized closet. My bookshelf. My pictures. My medication shelf. My bed. My hygiene routine. My shoes. My outfits. My techniques for my musical instruments. My driving style. So many other aspects of my life.
… Fuck you assholes that don’t know me or OCD.
I wish I could give my life to someone. Especially someone with a loving family. Tell them, “Here, take my healthy heart/lungs/blood cells/brain/anything. Take it. I love my family, but the love you have for life and for your family far exceeds mine and you deserve life more than I do.”
If I could give my life to someone else, I would do it faster than a heart beat.
I think about this everyday.
I’ll be walking to class.
Some people say “if you’re suicidal, why do you look both ways before crossing the street?”
I just hope someday, I will seriously not hear or see a car, the car will not hear or see me, then they’ll hit me, I’ll be in critical condition, and my organs (those that are usable) will benefit the life of someone else.
That’s what I really want.
It’s also why I hate myself so much.
Why do I get 2 roofs over my head? Why do I get a nice bed? Why do I get not only a good Catholic Education but also a good college education? Why do I get to study something to some people as arbitrary as music? Why do I have clothes, a fan, shoes, band-aids, soap? Why do I get food?
I don’t deserve this.
I don’t deserve this life my parents have given me. I don’t deserve anything my father bought me for Christmas. I don’t deserve this new bed with sheets. I don’t deserve this apartment that I barely pay for. I don’t deserve the clothes on my back.
I hate my life.
I can’t believe I can function.
Someone else should have this.
Make this worthy.