March 27th.

Nearly Nothing.

Listening to: Another Year: A Short History of Almost Something.
Mood: Stale.
Chatting to: Bas.

I want my chest pressed to your chest.

Last night, I can't even describe what was going on in my mind. And if I were to try you'd end up with another confusing and cryptic blog entry that only I really understand and would be of no benefit to anyone.

All I know is this is hard. All of it.
And sometimes I don't know if I should continue.
Or just let myself fade. Be enveloped by air and nothingness and clouds.
Hmm. A Strawberry Cloud, maybe.
Here I go being cryptic again.

But the thing is, could I really just come out and say it?
That I want this thing and I hate that thing and I really, really miss this thing?
(Thing thing thing thing)

Probably not.
I'd get yelled at.
And left.

March 26th.

I'm craving coffee and waking up in someone else's bed.

Listening to: Only Ones Who Know - Arctic Monkeys
Mood: Refer to this blog's title. No, not the date, you idiot.

It's been a lonely week. Filled with people.
Yeah, don't expect me to be making much sense this time of night. My sleep patterns are a bit fucked as of late. I'd like to blame the meds, but that would be taking the easy way out, I think. And I'm too used to taking the easy way out. Let's mix things up, shall we?

I haven't told anyone directly, nor will I directly talk about it due to the fact that it screws with my head too much (Oh, we don't want that now, do we, we want to keep that 'positive attitude' the psych keeps harping on about without actually doing anything to help) but my screwed up dreams are coming back.
But Ree, you might say, aren't you always having screwed up dreams? To which I would quietly chortle, take a sip of my vodka, then another, then a gulp, and reply "Yes. But not always the same ones. And some affect me more than others. Haven't you listened to anything I've been telling you, silly child?" (with the air of a worldly and most likely alcoholic middle-aged aunt wearing a pantsuit and sporting long, red talons) I would probably close my eyes, then, and lean back in my chair as you continued to judge me, and drain my drink a little bit more.

On a completely unrelated note, I miss booze.

Back to the point.
I get the feeling that people don't take my frequent nightmare-ing seriously, and I can understand. To someone who hasn't been through this kind of thing, it could easily be misconstrued as an attention-seeking effort.

In fact, to be honest, I haven't been telling anyone the full story of late, because I'm sick of people assuming it's nothing, it's a ruse, Ree just wants cuddles and sympathy again.
Not that I don't like cuddles and sympathy. They're always good. So is tea. And decent conversation.
But I digress.
What's the point of divulging my worries in people if I'm just going to get shunned?
(And I do realise there will be a few people reading this thinking "Wait...She's going EASY on us?" And I totally understand. Even at my most restrained, I whinge a lot.)

I miss certain people that I haven't missed for a while. It's strange.
I wonder if it's been enough time yet.

How long does it really take for emotional wounds to heal?
For people to change?
Do people change?
If anyone can't, it's me. And I hate that fact about myself.
Much like I hate most other things. But hey. I almost sound like I'm looking for cuddles and sympathy again.

I might blog again tomorrow. I might not. I might blog again in three hours, who knows.

This is probably one of the stranger moods I've been in.

Adieu.

March 20th.

Brilliance.

Listening to: Breathing.
Mood: Tired, but strangely content.

The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of sorts.
Partly good, partly bad, I guess.

Some amazing things have happened. Amanda Palmer, for one.
(Everyone is pretty much sick of hearing about how she touched my boobs. She touched my boobs, by the way.)

And some awful things. Well, not anything in particular, but I've had some rather crippling down periods. Hopefully this will be a thing of the past, however.

I've started on antidepressants. Finally. I know that's not something to boast about. Boasting about being mentally ill is not my thing. But it's a good change.

No side effects yet, aside from a bit of appetite loss. And I'm more tired. Eh. I don't mind. Why would I need energy anyway?

People don't realise how hard it is to find a job at my age. Especially sans HSC. Not that I regret leaving school early. I just regret that society seems to worship that stupid piece of paper.

Some people can't deal with school, especially people with depression, I've noticed. I left. Other people do Pathways. Other people do Distance Ed.
Some just crumble under the weight of it all.

I'm not saying education isn't important. It is. It's rewarding, and sometimes interesting. It's just that the system sucks. Unfortunately I wouldn't be able to come up with a better one. Any ideas?

At the moment my interest in education is minimal at best. Right now I want to live. And when I'm in school/TAFE/whatever, I feel dead. And no one wants to feel dead.

At least, I should hope not.

I'm trying to be okay, for your sake. But could you at least act like I mean something? Anything.

Am I really such a bad person that I deserve to be treated like this?

I got a good night's sleep last night, surprisingly. I don't know if I was talking or not, though. I'll ask Brendan when he wakes up.

I had a strange dream about a dog having puppies that were a different breed, and then the puppies grew really quickly, and then they changed into humans. It was...well, weird. But in the dream it seemed normal to everyone.

Sometimes my dreams mean things. I think. It's hard to explain.

But that one was just random.

My arms are itchy.

March 4th.

If you're disappointed, you're doing it wrong.

Listening to: Undisclosed Desires - Muse.
Mood: Tired.
Reading: The Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Aruthur Conan Doyle.

Today there are things I'm supposed to be doing, but I doubt I'll get them done.
I doubt I'll get anything done. It's one of those days where I just... I just can't.
So. Tea and reading and N64.

I might put a blogroll up. I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately. I might as well get them some more publicity. Not that it'll be much, no one reads my blog.
Well, maybe like 2 people, and only when I tell them to. Ah well.

Only 3 more sleeps.

Amazing woman.

Things I want for my birthday (hint hint):

• Buffy box sets.
• Charmed box sets.
• Dexter box sets.
• A pair of black Doc Martens.
• An antique birdcage.
• An old-fashioned tea set.
• Money.
• Black high waisted shorts (but not too short).

I don't think I'll end up getting any of that stuff though. Maybe the dvds. Possibly the shorts, but apparently a black pair is hard to find.
It's okay though. I don't mind what I end up getting. I don't mind if I get nothing. Being 18 is enough.

I might make myself that tea now.

March 3rd.

A risk I'm willing to take.

Listening to: Rich in Promise - July Morning.
Mood: Inexplicably giddy.

First off, I am an idiot. A HUGE idiot.
But I'm enjoying this far too much. It's nice to actually LIVE for once instead of just worrying. It's nice to just take the plunge and do things.

I've been busy. Driving, shopping, spending time with people, reading, watching FAR too much of the Sci Fi channel (I'm now quite addicted to Buffy, Charmed and Stargate SG1; shows I vowed never to get into.), and drinking rather a lot of tea.
People have started coming to me for advice. Finally. After all this time of being the one to spill her problems all over her closest friends, I'm the rock they lean on. Now, I know I'm not the only person my friends use for support. But it's nice to be one, at least, for once.

Doesn't totally stop me feeling worthless, but it helps. And any help is good in this ongoing battle against... Well, whatever the fuck is wrong with me.

Which reminds me. I've been diagnosed.
Depression.
It's official. And I'm strangely happy at the news. I guess I'm just glad that I know now, and we can do something about it.
I probably need to call my dad tonight and try and figure out some of this doctor business.
Lately I feel like I've been in waiting rooms most of the time. Not just literal ones. metaphorical ones, too.
Doctor's offices. Centrelink waiting rooms. Waiting for someone to call, to text, to reply. Waiting for the hours to pass. Waiting for someone to arrive, to leave.
It's not so bad, I suppose. Better than being overwhelmed.

Although, some things are overwhelming me... In a good way.
They shouldn't. But they do.
(Idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot...)

I turn 18 in two months. It's kind of massive for me.
My whole life, a lot of the questions I've asked my parents have been answered with "When you're 18." and now, I'm nearly there.
But what does it mean, really?
I can drink. Smoke. Get a tattoo.
I'm legally an adult.
But am I physically? Emotionally?
I don't know yet. but I'm getting there. Even in the past month I've made a lot of progress.
I'm proud of myself. I wish you'd be proud of me. Or even just notice.
Now to decide what tattoo to get. Or body part to shove metal through. Nose, I think first. Then maybe an industrial through my ear.
Even if I haven't grown up yet, I'm starting to enjoy the process...

This weekend might possibly be the most epic weekend ever.
AMANDA.
FUCKING.
PALMER.
And while I probably won't get to meet her, one can dream, right? And besides, just to be seeing her in concert is fucking awesome. The woman's my hero. Heroine? Both. She's gotten me through a lot.
And I know I'll cry if/when she plays Astronaut.

What can I say? I'm an idiot.