4/17/00
Tax Day. Fuck me. Tax day this year is on a Monday, as if Mondays aren't bad enough, as if I don't have enough crap to deal with on Mondays (therapy?) and I wasn't already in a state. Now I have taxes to file, Crazy Paige is calling me wanting me to buy her herbs and shit to cast spells on people (another story, more later) and I just want to scream.
Anyway, therapy today was rather revelatory. "Let's talk about your childhood and explore how it may have made you such a fuck-up." Uh, okay. So I got through this much--I have, for the most part, stopped blaming my parents for not being Ward and June Cleaver. I mean, I no longer believe that they got together and said, "hey, I know, let's have several children and see just how badly we can fuck them up! It'll be cool!" And I realize that my childhood could have been much, much worse. And to a large extent, I have forgiven my parents for seeing my little oddities as character flaws instead of signs that I was, even then, completely fucking nuts. But when someone, like a therapist, points something out to me, like the fact that I created this "fox hole" for myself at such a young age and how remarkable it is that a kid that young could come up with that kind of defense strategy, it really hits a nerve. It just seems so damned unfair that I and so many other kids have had to deal with shit like that and worse. And while I don't continue to blame my parents (really), I would still sometimes like to shake them both and say "why the hell didn't you wait until you were older, more mature, and less mentally fucked up yourselves to have children?" (Not only would my life have turned out much differently, but I'd also be younger--how cool would that be?) And it's hard to not downplay it, to not say "Jesus Christ, your mom didn't beat you with a stick every day of your life, your father didn't have sex with you, so obviously there is something really, REALLY wrong with you if you have this hard a time just functioning in life and rather than looking for something to blame it on, you should just concentrate on whatever character flaw is making you such a basket case and focus your energy on killing it." I like what Dennis Leary had to say about mental illness--"shut the fuck up!" I've been telling myself to shut the fuck up for years, and it hasn't got me anywhere. Maybe he's not as insightful as he is humorous.
But I was told today that I'm not getting crazier, I'm just more "aware" of the little odd things I do and my little freakish reactions to things, and because I'm aware of them, they're more pronounced, and it feels more intense. Plus before I started opening all these cans of worms, I was just sort of dead to the world. I almost think it was easier when I thought I was just strange. Now that I'm finding out that there are reasons for virtually all the weird things I do and think and feel, it makes me feel like even more of a circus attraction. Like today it just dawned on me that my whole life has revolved around trying to please someone, anyone. Because if you are good enough or smart enough or pretty enough or what the fuck ever enough, someone will love you. Right? At least, that's what I learned early on--if I was good enough, my mother was happy. And that was good for everyone involved. Which is where I started trying to be perfect. And I've never got the accolades I seemed to think I deserved (because, mostly, no one ever knew I wanted them), and that has made me believe I'm a failure.
Speaking of failure, I'm failing Computer Science 106. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am screwed with a capital SCREW. So much for my 3.79 GPA. I currently have 44 out of 200 possible points in the class. There will be 600 possible points. So my only hope is to do really stellar work on the next test, the paper I haven't written yet, the last assignment and the final. Oh, God, have mercy on my pathetic soul. I'm going to fail a class. Which wouldn't be so bad, if I weren't failing the class because I WENT NUTS. That's the worst part.
I look really ridiculous today. I went tanning yesterday and burned, therefore, I am trying to protect my charred flesh by wearing a silk shirt over a little polyester tank-top, and much of that charred flesh is showing. Plus my hair desperately needs a hot oil treatment or a trim or a good shaving and I recently touched up my ash-blond dye job. So here I am, this scantily-clad lobster girl with an unGodly amount of frizzy blond hair. I look like I spent the whole weekend surfing. Dude...
Now here is my "please reassure me" plea--would someone please read this crap and tell everyone you know to read it and e-mail me telling me how inspiring/amusing/enlightening/ freaky you think I am? I'm a lonely, lonely girl...plus I'm just desperate to hear how great I am. So even if you think I'm an idiot, please just humor me and send me something nice. Just don't send me anything having to do with needles in ball pits, "spunkball," a thousand dollars from Bill Gates, or any of the plethera of spam I'm getting these days. Oh, by the way, I've already started getting "XXX Live Action!" e-mail on my new hotmail account. If I didn't mention it, I gave up my aol account because my mailbox has been full of "BARELY LEGAL TEENS!" messages and I swear, I have never downloaded porn or anything. Sigh...so don't send me any porn, either, unless I'm in it...
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