Souci

Worry, to me, isn't an emotion. It's a thing. One could go so far as to call it a creature. It lives in my diaphragm, sometimes traveling down to my stomach or up to behind my sternum. It's just a hard, chlenching feeling that I can't really describe. Like I'm going to gag or something, or start wheezing or heaving. When it gets really bad, it punches me between the shoulder blades and makes my entire chest feel empty.

It doesn't go away. Worry's a permanent tenant. Sometimes it'll hide for a while, and I won't really feel it, but it always comes back. It's worst when it's behind my sternum. That's when I feel the worst. It just sits there, a lead weight, a clenching of some unknown muscle, leaving tension and pain and turmoil. It's a totally shit feeling. It turns everything I say or write into melodrama (like right now--I probably sound like one of those fake-emo Twilight LJ-ers right now.) and makes me freak out about everything. I'm really good at being paranoid. But it's really that thing in my chest that's sitting there, making me gag on my own thoughts. It makes me want to die.

I thought that things would tie me down. Friends, a boyfriend, commitments, a job, AP French. Nope. I still have that overwhelming feeling that it'd be so much better if I were dead. Not that I want to kill myself. Because if I did, I know I'd hurt everyone around me. I'm not that selfish. I don't want to hurt people. I want to vanish without a ripple, maybe just have a few people miss me a little, but miss me like I moved across the world, not like I died and it was "their fault." I don't want to be forgotten, just gone. I don't want people to worry or grieve or hate themselves for something that's totally the fault of that damnable thing that lives in my chest.

Even though I've been happier lately, I still wish I wasn't alive. Frequently. Everything would be so much easier if I weren't alive. I wouldn't have to worry about anything--not the friend with a drinking problem or the boyfriend under house arrest who may not like me anymore anyway or the people who expect too much of me or the sister who just wants me to spend time with her while I sit there wanting to die or the friends who want to hang out but I'm too scared to leave the house or the fact that I can't find any music that'll make me feel better.

I don't know what to do. Any suggestions?
FBT out.

Explication des Emotions

I'm not one who has any patience for suicide. I don't like it. At all. But lately, too much has been going on for me to feel like anything's worth it. It's not that I want to die, I just don't want to live.

Grades.
Why do they matter? Who cares if you got a fucking C in English class fourth quarter? Why does it matter if you take the AP track or not, why are we so obsessed with the little markings that control our lives? Lately, I've been so overwhelmed by it. My inadvertent strategy is that I'm too scared and anxious to even pick up my homework, so I just don't do it. Then I panic about not doing it. But it's too scary to try. So I panic.

Friends.
They're demanding. They're loud. They're... there. That clamoring thereness usually helps me keep my sanity, but lately I haven't been able to deal with it all the time. I've been distant, impatient, jumpy, and sad. Not my usual. They notice, but think they can cheer me up. Sometimes tey do. Some days, they help me forget what's going on in my head. Some days I just silently scream "go away, go away, go away," even when I don't want them to. Because I love them. I just can't deal all the time. I'm worried I'm going to do something stupid, like snap at them or judge them harshly when I just can't deal with myself.

Family.
I don't even know what to say. My house feels like a war zone even when everyone's happy. I just feel tension, because I just know something I do will break that happiness. Everything feels like my fault. I'm always on the defensive, always trying to hide, even when everyone cares. I just never know what'll ignite a fuse.

If there was a way to swap souls for a while, I would. I don't want to die. I really, really don't. I just don't want to live. I want to go unconscious and still function, make everyone happy, everything good. I just don't want to be there. I want to hit fast-forward until my brain starts to get normal again. If it ever will.

How do you tell someone that you don't want to be alive, but that you love them?

I sound so fucking melodramatic. Like a fucking LJ-er looking for attention. I just write dramatically. But I'm feeling this. And I don't know what to do. I need a new brain. Or a different soul. I don't know. I don't want to be alive right now.

Je Suis Stupide

I hate feeling useless. I've been wallowing in anxiety--which, by the way, is not getting much better--but trying to regain perspective.
I am positive that my parents are not going to be impressed with this perspective-gaining, though.
I've come to the realization (well, I came to it long ago) that I and nearly everyone I know is so amazingly lucky to be where they are in life. Seriously, there are such unfortunate people out there, people who are living on less than $1 a day, to whom our lifestyle is beyond paradise and our problems beyond trivial.
There are girls who, rather than having the stress of what to wear to a party, are off selling their bodies to pay for their family's food. There are children who are forced into slavery and war. There is genocide going on, and all anyone can think about is their own damn life and their own superficial problems. People are starving to death, being beaten and killed, and there is a shockingly small amount of care in the world for it.
So while this does make me feel a lot better about my own situation, I also feel like this incredibly self-absorbed, insensitive person. And that's why I want to help people.
As soon as I'm out of college, because my parents won't have any form of leverage over me by then, I'm going to join Peace Corps or something and help people. I'll teach kids to read. I'll build houses. I'll solve problems. I'll do whatever I can to make this crazy world into a bit of a better place. Because if I die without having really helped someone in their life, my own life will have been a waste.
My parents aren't going to talk me out of this one. Nobody will. I've wanted to do this since I was about eight years old. There is too much bad going on in the world for me to sit back and live my own life without having helped someone else.
OK, I'm done ranting right now.
But I'm still serious.

Je Perds de Contrôle..

I find it kinda funny, and I find it kinda sad, that the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
I'm tired of everyone telling me to be mature.
I was one of those people who was born middle-aged and gets older every year. Trust me, I'm far too mature for my age. Having anxiety and depression issues doesn't help.
Either way, my issues are too much to control at the moment. I am stuck in too many situation where nothing that I say or do will be able to in any way influence the outcome. And all of these situation drastically impact me, so I can't go disregarding them.
Compartmentalize.
I hate that word.
Everyone tells me to do it--to box up my anxieties and stick them on a shelf for a while, to relax. What they don't realize is that I did that long ago. Now the anxieties are coming to life, destroying their boxes, and running rampant around my mind. I've already minimized them as much as possible, already stepped back and tried to regain perspective. I've compartmentalized, minimized, rationalized, everything. The problem is that even after being put through the perspective factory, the issues are still there and still big.
On top of it, all of the anxiety and exhaustion and insomnia and demanding people are starting to get to me. I'm deteriorating physically and mentally, now. I'm starting to get sick. It's bad.
I just need to take a break from being everyone's therapist, stop becoming paranoid over little things, stop deciding that people hate me when they don't--and definitely stop thinking that I'm losing everyone around me. I'm not losing everyone. Just a lot of people. Possibly.
And now everyone on crew will be mad at me.
I'm sorry that I got sick, guys. I know you're short on tech. But I don't think that you'd want me puking on stage from illness (be it physical or mental.) I will make it up to you. I'll try.
I've been dealing with these issues for too long--that must be the problem. It was easy to minimize everything back when they started, but now I'm utterly overwhelmed and at a loss for options. I'm losing control of myself, something that I fear more than anything else. I'm flying apart, and no amount of "grow up" or "compartmentalize" is going to stop the spiral at this point. I either need to totally lose it or shut down for a few days. I'll probably do both. But life will go on. It always does.
I think I need a hug.

Arrêtes! Ne Me Touches Pas Là!

Luke: If women didn't frequently get raped, that would be hilarious.

OK, so over the years I have realized that I have a few issues. Depression, anxiety that should probably be medicated, and a general aversion to strangers. Especially touchy-feely strangers.

Now, this is where I get messed up. I have no real problems with people my age who want to hug when they see me or whatever, even most guys (with whom I'm usually much more shy.) Actually, I'm quite free with contact among people in my age group. But when adult-types go to hug or kiss or shake hands, that's when my "weirdness center" kicks in.

One time, I was at a doctor's office. Super sick. Not a good place to be, as I couldn't really breathe. They had a new doctor in the place, a new doctor who I was seeing. He went to shake my hand, and my stupid touch issues went all insane. Inside, I was all, "NO! DO NOT TOUCH ME." I shook the guy's hand, but not after a not-so-subtle-but-totally-involuntary wince and an abundance of post-contact Purell. (Yes. I am a germophobe.) So far, like 5 other doctors have done this to me--all male. Is this some kind of middle-aged white guy with a PhD thing? What's the deal here? Plus, they all have the weird not-sweaty, I-just-wiped-my-sweaty-hands-on-my-trousers, slightly puffy fat hands, even if they're not fat. It's bizarre. Hasn't anyone else noticed this?

Continuing with the doctor theme, since I've been to quite a few of them lately, all of these random middle-aged-white-guys-with PhDs seem to require prodding me or making me lie down. I have issues with lying down. It's like, submission, and makes me vulnerable and stuff. Now, every time I am persuaded to lie down, I typically have a needle jabbed into me or some bodily fluid removed from a facial orifice. Or a large, plumber's-snake esque device fed through my nose to down my throat so a doc could have a live-action view of my nasal cavities. Yum. Yeah so this time I actually was getting blood drawn, and for some reason incomprehensible to me, I am again asked to lie down. Now, pair this irrational fear of lying down with my other irrational anxiety about the veins at the crooks of my arms, and you get one stressed out FBT. Couple this with an extremely high fever, and you get an extremely stressed-out FBT who is dizzy and faintly nauseated and very unwilling to cooperate. And I'm terrified of needles. Yup, it's a really fun time.

Then there are relatives. Although they are related to me, I really cannot comprehend how we can share anything other than a bloodline. All of the relatives and non-relatives-but-we'll-pretend-they-are-for-the-hell-of-it on mon père's side seem to have a thing for contact. Now, because I don't particularly like any of these psycho relatives, I don't really wish to touch them--let alone be in the same room with them for hours at a time while they subtly critisize my clothes/friends/life and then mock me about it. (In the words of my othuh grandmuthuh, «oy vey!») However, after these hours of annoyance and boredom cease, they all do not fail to try to hug/kiss me. Now, the hug is something I have not perfected with adults. It always seems to be an awkward, vaguely pedophiliac moment, especially with my relatives--who may or may not be on crack. So you can probably imagine how this awkwardness is added to when they go to kiss me on the cheek or something. I have to resist the urge to grab the nearest blunt object and swat them away with it. I'm such a charmer. Really. I swear.
(Actually, I do manage to stay quite polite with these folks, contrary to popular belief.)

Yeah, so just tack this onto the Cosmic List of Stuff that Makes FBT a Weird Kid. Because not only do I have the issues, I REPORT 'em. All for you, folks.

Now, I'm going back to taking my temperature, drinking plenty of fluids, and watching Juno with French dub. PARCE QUE JE SUIS TOUT SIMPLEMENT COOLE COMME ÇA.

FBT OUT.

Pour les Conformistes

I figure that it's high time that I got out the rant that I've been saving for a rainy day. Nothing really preempted this, [well, now some things have, but nothing preempted the first draft] but I just feel like writing right now. So here it goes:

To All You Conformists:

I am proud to be a Goth. Or a punk. Or whatever you decide to call me. I do not dress the way I do to impress people or to shock you. You all are really not that important to me. The truth is, my black clothes and chains and blue hair and neon accessories come from my personal ideas.

That's right. I have ideas and opinions just like the rest of you.

When I get dressed in the morning in my gothpants and chains--you may not believe it--but that's when I feel pretty. Yeah, pretty. To me, pretty's not looking stick thin in Ugg boots and a North Face jacket. Pretty's not a ruffly shirt or skintight jeans. Pretty's not poser-fashion in sack shaped shirt-dresses or whatever the hell's in fashion magazines lately. I feel prettiest in black, when my arms are sheathed in studs and when my feet are clad in combat boots. I don't dress the way I do for anyone but myself. Ever since I was just a tot (probably around seven years old) and I first saw goths/punks/whatever you want to call them, I knew that's what I wanted to look like. I couldn't believe how pretty the girls looked in their studs and chains--that's what I was missing when I looked at myself in the mirror! I had never been satisfied with my appearance until I went «goth». Now, I look in the mirror and can smile, because I finally look how I want to.

And you know something else? [I'm going to be a bit conceited now, watch out...] I like to think that I can design fashions better than most. And you know why? Because I CAN THINK FOR MYSELF. I'm not another lame poser trying to play the fashion designer, I'm doing my own thing, creating my own look, drawing out my own ideas. I don't copy what's been successful in the past, but draw out my own ideas for a new look in the future.

But the best part of the punk style is the part that nearly nobody knows about. I've found that out of any style group I've ever met (and I have met many), the darkest dressers are the nicest people. Walk into any Abercrombie or Juicy boutique, and the clerk will turn up their nose at you in a display of their obvious fashion superiority. Being snubbed is part of the couture experience, I guess. But walk into a Hot Topic, and the clerk will actually get up and greet you, asking «How are you?» like they really mean it, and enthusiastically chat about fun stores or good music with you. Even my Brooklyn grandmother's noticed this--she's learned that the kids I hang out with (despite their senior-citizen-shocking looks) are actually the «good crowd» (and the most accepting, friendly crowd I've ever met), while the kids who sleep around, do drugs, and all sorts of other unsavory practices are the ones who look so «nice.»

It's time that my studded, spiked, chained brethren were given the good rep they deserve. We should be appreciated for our inherent individuality, our devil-may-care attitude, our surprisingly friendly nature. Just because we have a taste for metal and ink doesn't mean that we're bad people. It's been said for centuries, «don't judge a book by its cover.» This should apply to every cover, even the ones with pictures that are a little «unsettling» to look at. Because we think our covers are beautiful.

FBT OUT.

Desolée, Miley

Yeahhh... No.