I feel sad...

It's nice to finally have someone who I can talk to and who may understand me just a little (or at least make me feel like I am understood).



Dear Nick,
     I really hope this doesn't wake you, for that is not my goal, rather I just need somewhere to write this all down, and I'm too lazy to bring down my laptop or fumble in the dark for some pen and paper.  Don't even bother with reading this, as it is most likely random, incomprehensible, and not worth your time.  All I know is that I feel really sad and need to express it.  And it's strange: I just read a good book and I feel nothing but depression and dissatisfaction.  I'm anxious (I'm starting to believe that it's quite possible I have some sort of anxiety disorder) and I'm not sure why.  I think I figured out why I sometimes doubt your love for me, although it may just be the lack of sleep or overwhelming sickness that brings this conclusion.  Anyway, I think that it may be that I am not sure you always love me for me.  In other words, I'm paranoid that your perception of me is inaccurate or incomplete.  This probably stems from not really understanding myself or sometimes believing that most of what I tell myself is a lie.  Sometimes I feel that I've invented aspects of my personality, but at the same time I wonder, what is personality really other than what we choose to be?  I guess it's safe to say that I'm confused and consequently sad.  I wonder just how reoccurring my depression is, and I often contemplate getting myself some help.  I really am still suicidal as I lie in bed considering it, yet I don't really understand the extent of my condition.  I'm not that unhappy with life so to speak, just very frustrated.  I secretly hate school just as much as you, only I delude myself into thinking I enjoy it or at least see its purpose.  I think a lot about asking my dad to pull me out of school, but something keeps me enrolled in a routine I've grown to despise.  If anything, this message at least reveals to you how bat-shit crazy I am.  I pray to a God I wish I could believe in, that this message does not dim your adoring gaze, only that it hopefully allows you to understand (and perhaps care more deeply for if I may be so daring to ask) its subject.  I imagine I should probably end this if I ever want to send it...I really am sorry for being such a burden.  I love you very much.

4:44AM Tue, Sep 21



Yes, that is copied exactly how I wrote it, save a few spelling errors and necessary but forgotten commas.
Yes, I did write that all in a text message using the keyboard on my phone.
Yes, it did take a long while and yes it did take up 15 text messages (thank God for unlimited).


     I guess this all deserves some back-story.  I have a boyfriend.  As you can guess, his name is Nick.  He is wonderful and great to me and I believe we love each other very much and that our love is real.  For the past week I've been feeling off, not necessarily toward him, but toward life in general.  It's been reminiscent of the depression I suffered throughout middle school. 
     Whenever I feel this way, I tend to drift back to my old comfort: reading.  So at 2am, I wandered into my library and picked out a book I had not read.  I found the inside cover of "The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks" by E. Lockhart to be to my liking and I carried it to bed with me.
     The book was great; amazing even.  It moved me, although this is not an unusual feat for a novel.  I've always been very emotional.  I cry at the end of sad movies and romantic comedies, and I feel bad when Nick blows up enemy tanks on an online video game.  I usually, however, feel quite elated, or inspired by the literature which I read.  Tonight had rather the opposite affect, it depressed me.
     I'm not sure why, as the ending wasn't particularly sad or upsetting.  It may be the antibiotics, as I was rushed to the ER last Monday (not yesterday) and have been taking them along with painkillers.  On top of that I've caught some sort of flu or cold, so I sit here, laptop namesakenly on my thighs, sneezing and writing out my thoughts.  All I know is that afterwards I felt quite helpless and even hopeless.  I began questioning my life, wondering what I'm doing here.  Scalding myself for being unhappy, when in reality my life would be considered swell compared to others who are less fortunate.  I've had my past horrors, and real ones at that which I may later share, but currently I've gotten over those speed bumps, or mountains they may be, and should be quite content.  I'm editor-in-chief of my school newspaper, I have a 4.0, and I'm on the right track to a wonderful college.  I have a substantially supportive parent, many friends (although I feel as if my close friendships are dissolving), and a boyfriend who cares for and loves me more than he does himself.  I should be happy right?
     I'm not sure what keeps me from being elated for long periods of time.  I don't know if it's my horrible sleeping habits and perpetual tiredness that ails me.  Maybe I really do suffer from clinical depression, than the lie I tell that I've been officially diagnosed with it would only be a white lie.  I really think I do, at least it sure feels like it.  I should probably find myself some help, and although my father is a psychologist I feel no qualms with visiting one of his kind.  A large part of me doesn't want to have to take that first step to finding one though.  I want someone else to refer me.  I don't want to have to take care of myself for once.
     Seeing the personal route this entry has taken, I think this blog will serve more as a diary for my musings.  I doubt anyone will read any of it (comments much appreciated if you do though) and perhaps I may someday turn it into a novel of my own.