Emotions, and other worthless things.

I finished my college applications today. The eighth of February, but they're finished. I don't particularly care anymore. I don't care about much anything. I feel myself holding back here, I want to say, "My head is spinning." I held back cause that's so vague. It's just a stupid clich�. And physically, my head is still firmly attached to my neck and shoulders. I'm reeling though. I'm exhausted; I'm running from my parents, I'm hiding from everything. I'm not doing any of the work I wanted to do. My head is spinning. It's too much, it's all at once, and it's pounding on my doors and keeping me from sleep.

Sleep. Precious stuff, and yet I've had troubling dreams. I had a dream that my calculus teacher wrote me a letter about the assignment that I got nine points out of 28 on. He handed me an envelope covered in words, but nothing was inside the envelope. All over the outside of the envelope he had written - "I'm so disappointed with you, Margaret." Everyone says "Don't let the Calculus teacher down." It's true that he's much loved. I have no desire to work anymore, though.

I woke up and realized I had fallen asleep with the lights on. I slid my books and notebooks off the bed, and shut off the lights, and tried to find a blanket. My bed reeked of soap. Detergent. My face had been stinging - three hours after my therapist had called me and I wailed and sobbed into the receiver and my face was still red and stinging. Burnt with tears, I tried to fall asleep again. I dreamed that I had come home late at night, and slipped into the house through the kitchen door instead of the front door. My father was waiting for me, but I escaped him and avoided him and ran up to my bedroom. He came into my bedroom and apologized for invading my privacy. It's so strange; I never have dreams that are so real and so indicative of what I want to happen to me in real life. I want my father to apologize.

I'll live if he doesn't though. I'll live these months. Six months now, is it? I can't remember. My therapist called me. I can't figure out who's on my side, or if I should have a side at all. She was sympathetic though, as I bawled and coughed into the telephone. She took my side. I was terrified that she wouldn't, that she'd be critical or condemning. Why am I always so afraid of these things? I should have realized that I pay her to be on my side. Maybe, though, even if she weren't my therapist she would still believe that I'm doing the right thing. I had expected my brother to take my side. Strange, but when he didn't it was a heavy blow. I should have realized he probably wouldn't understand.

I had resolved not to write journal entries when I am emotional, and yet what am I doing here? I'm ranting, I'm raving. I will see my therapist this afternoon, and I will have things to talk about. Oh, will I have things to talk about. And maybe things will make more sense. I was afraid that I had blown things out of proportion, but hearing my therapist so concerned was reassuring. It made me feel like I wasn't being a mental hypochondriac, and that important things did happen this weekend.

I want to leave this house. I want to leave this family. I want to go away. I don't even care. I want out, and I want to go now. I can't bear it, I can't face it, and oh I am so typical. I want to shove things under the carpet, into a closet, far out of sight. I don't want to face the fact that I'm a coward, a whimpering little girl. I want to hide my custard spine under words of bravery and maturity, but that's all it is - hiding.

I will write more later.

2000-02-08, Emotional drivel

before / after

archives / website / hello book / diaryland