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"Don't Count the Ways You Want to Fall..."
Dec. 1st, 2005 10:34 pmI think I think you can only cry so much in one day. And I'm awfully tired now, so I think I think I am going right to sleep.
But you know what, you know? You can't just go to sleep for-ever. And you can't just duck out of sight and expect that to make everything better. And I am lonely. And it simply isn't going to help. I mean. I shouldn't wonder if it didn't just make everything worse. (Don't tell me I'm an idiot, I know; but I have to sound things out--and it takes me longer to realise things that are obvious, because they don't fit in with my way of thinking.) Being alone always and hiding from everybody won't make you love yourself.
And how many times are people meant to have to say they love me before it makes a difference? I can't honestly say when it'll start to make a difference. My progress is slow. It's obviously slow. I regress far too easily, and far too frequently--but I should realise, shouldn't I, that I also manage to stay afloat. And doing what I've been doing this week is giving up, in a way. It is. Because things--certain things--are always going to be falling down around your ears. Miss Zara is one of the strongest people I know, because she doesn't give up.
And look at everything I've got to help me. I've got Mum, I've got Marie, I've got telephone numbers and addresses and clinics and, oh, for goodness' sake, I have a whole beautiful friendslist of people who care whether I live or die. I have a whole beautiful flist of people who do keep saying they love me, even though they have to keep saying it over and over and over and it never seems to wear away at all the issues I've got piled up around me--they still keep on saying it. And God knows they don't have to. But they do. And isn't that something to live for? Isn't that such a lot to live for? People are helping me, people are holding me up, and it's no use doing the dramatic emo thing and letting go and turning into a walking, breathing mess of hysterics and self-hatred and utterly useless misery. Because I can do good things, can't I? I work two part-time jobs, with people I love, doing things I really do love. But I can't do those things if I'm hiding in my room feeling sorry for myself.
Because you just can't think about yourself all the time. Anyone would start to feel bad if she only thought about herself and what was wrong with her. You have to do other things. You have to love other people, and you have to do it as well as you know how. You have to live and smile and make people happy, if that's what you can do. I'm not a genius and I'm not amazingly brilliant or amazingly beautiful, but if I smile big enough people always smile back, and I can say Have a nice day! and mean it when I stamp people's cards at the library, and that's worth something, isn't it?
And it's snowing outside. Oh, God, it's snowing.
And it's not just all going to fix itself, everything, just because I know I can do something. It's going to go slow. It's obviously going to go slow. I've managed two Thanksgivings, two Hallowe'ens, like this, four weeks at Blue Mountain Lake, two birthdays at Rickett's Glen. Things always take longer to mend than to break, and I've been like this for a little more than a year, so it won't suddenly get fixed in a day. I will have to work at it.
But you can't just go to sleep for-ever, and you can't hide, and you have to come out. And I am thinking of taking another part-time job, one that is perhaps more than volunteer work, and I will work extra-hard on school, because someday I am going to be a really good stoma surgeon, and I will try to eat properly and exercise enough and sleep the right number of hours and fit everything into a day, but if I can't, I will not scream at myself, and I will not hate and hate and hate, and I will do my best to make it come out right.
And also I will not avoid the people I love. Because that won't make anything better, and because I should know better than to treat people like that.
And now I really do have to go to bed, because I can't hardly keep my eyes open. It's the first of December. And it's snowing. ^________^
But you know what, you know? You can't just go to sleep for-ever. And you can't just duck out of sight and expect that to make everything better. And I am lonely. And it simply isn't going to help. I mean. I shouldn't wonder if it didn't just make everything worse. (Don't tell me I'm an idiot, I know; but I have to sound things out--and it takes me longer to realise things that are obvious, because they don't fit in with my way of thinking.) Being alone always and hiding from everybody won't make you love yourself.
And how many times are people meant to have to say they love me before it makes a difference? I can't honestly say when it'll start to make a difference. My progress is slow. It's obviously slow. I regress far too easily, and far too frequently--but I should realise, shouldn't I, that I also manage to stay afloat. And doing what I've been doing this week is giving up, in a way. It is. Because things--certain things--are always going to be falling down around your ears. Miss Zara is one of the strongest people I know, because she doesn't give up.
And look at everything I've got to help me. I've got Mum, I've got Marie, I've got telephone numbers and addresses and clinics and, oh, for goodness' sake, I have a whole beautiful friendslist of people who care whether I live or die. I have a whole beautiful flist of people who do keep saying they love me, even though they have to keep saying it over and over and over and it never seems to wear away at all the issues I've got piled up around me--they still keep on saying it. And God knows they don't have to. But they do. And isn't that something to live for? Isn't that such a lot to live for? People are helping me, people are holding me up, and it's no use doing the dramatic emo thing and letting go and turning into a walking, breathing mess of hysterics and self-hatred and utterly useless misery. Because I can do good things, can't I? I work two part-time jobs, with people I love, doing things I really do love. But I can't do those things if I'm hiding in my room feeling sorry for myself.
Because you just can't think about yourself all the time. Anyone would start to feel bad if she only thought about herself and what was wrong with her. You have to do other things. You have to love other people, and you have to do it as well as you know how. You have to live and smile and make people happy, if that's what you can do. I'm not a genius and I'm not amazingly brilliant or amazingly beautiful, but if I smile big enough people always smile back, and I can say Have a nice day! and mean it when I stamp people's cards at the library, and that's worth something, isn't it?
And it's snowing outside. Oh, God, it's snowing.
And it's not just all going to fix itself, everything, just because I know I can do something. It's going to go slow. It's obviously going to go slow. I've managed two Thanksgivings, two Hallowe'ens, like this, four weeks at Blue Mountain Lake, two birthdays at Rickett's Glen. Things always take longer to mend than to break, and I've been like this for a little more than a year, so it won't suddenly get fixed in a day. I will have to work at it.
But you can't just go to sleep for-ever, and you can't hide, and you have to come out. And I am thinking of taking another part-time job, one that is perhaps more than volunteer work, and I will work extra-hard on school, because someday I am going to be a really good stoma surgeon, and I will try to eat properly and exercise enough and sleep the right number of hours and fit everything into a day, but if I can't, I will not scream at myself, and I will not hate and hate and hate, and I will do my best to make it come out right.
And also I will not avoid the people I love. Because that won't make anything better, and because I should know better than to treat people like that.
And now I really do have to go to bed, because I can't hardly keep my eyes open. It's the first of December. And it's snowing. ^________^
