.stephanie.lee.nicole. (stephie_nhbg) wrote,
.stephanie.lee.nicole.
stephie_nhbg

 I should never go back and read my journal entries, especially my "on the edge of a cliff" "hanging out on the back of the Titanic" journal entries. I know it's not a good idea. It's never a good idea. All I wanted to do was look for some quotes I had put on the bottom of one of the entries but I couldn't remember which one and now I'm sitting here reading and reading and reading and I can't stop. It's like watching a train wreck in reverse. I know what happened, I know why, I know all the "I hope it get's better than this"s and the "please let this be the last time"s weren't the last. I know. And I keep reading. And thinking, and reading, and thinking and typing and I can't stop any of it.



Because as sad, and hopeless and downright terrifying as most of what I wrote is? It's more than that. It's like I left little bits of my soul in each thing I wrote because it doesn't matter how long ago I wrote it, I read it and I go right back, to that moment where I was sitting on my bed (or the bathroom floor) crying my eyes out, or the times where it was even worse where I wasn't even doing that just sitting there staring into space trying to piece back everything that got blown apart with the keys on my keyboard.

Because I'm good a pretending. Damn good, I've only ever been caught once, I've had hundreds of breakdowns, hundreds. But I've only ever been caught once. I'm not exaggerating. That means one of two things, I really am that good at pretending and that one time I couldn't bear to do it anymore. Or, and this is the one that hurts the most, I'm that alone. I mean I've only had one person actually stop me from spiraling into oblivion. And she wasn't my biological family. My sister in all but blood yes, but not family. And this is mostly because my biological family is more of a problem than a solution but that's neither here nor there.

I think the reason no one really notices is because I let them see just enough. The littlest bit of a problem and then let them cover it up by viewing my less then admirable qualities, i.e. me being a bitch who doesn't care about going to things or anyone but herself, when really it's more like I can't find the will to put the mask back on and I'd rather you hate me than see what really is the problem. Which is more of I can't breathe and I can't leave my bathroom floor, because I hyperventilated and can't stop crying and less I forgot about your graduation. But I'd rather you'd think the latter than the former. Because I love you too much to drag you down into the depths of my depression, the depression I've had pretty much my whole life but can only now admit to myself as having. The depression that is only exacerbated by my medical conditions and the fact that I'd rather hold it all in until I have an episode where I get a bout of agoraphobia so bad that people don't see me for weeks a time.

I know it's not fair. To anyone, least of all myself, but it's the only way I know how to handle it. It's why I let people disappear out of my life without a single word, because I don't want them to go, but I know that they'll be happier if they don't have to deal with it. It's also why I'm terrified of confrontation, reconnecting. Because how do you tell two different people that you love more than your own sister. Two people, one like a big sister one like a twin sister who used to love you more than you know your own parents loved you that the reason why you never called had nothing to do with not loving them and everything to do with not knowing how to tell them that you didn't know how to tell them what happened. That the only reason that Jamie knew is because she's the one who came and dragged your ass back out into the light and wouldn't let you run away until you told her. How do you tell someone that? How do you tell someone that you miss them every single day. I don't know, and these are the demons I get to live with every second of my life.

It's awful and I hate it, but I've lived this way, this lie, for so long now that I doubt I'll ever change it. I guess I'll just leave you all with something from the vaults of December of 2009, I don't know if anyone but me can grasp the significance of it or not, but reading it? Feels like someone just punched me through my whole body. It's amazing how the more things change the more they stay exactly the same.

Sometimes, I cry for no reason, get angry and curse the sky. Go so far from safe as I can get. Focus on the things I know wont help me at all. Like calling up people I shouldn't speak to, sit on the porch in a tank top, flip flops, and shorts when it's freezing out, will a car accident. I know not to do this, I know that I should fucking talk to someone when I get into my Girl Interrupted head space. But I usually don't, I usually end up either writing page upon page of stories that I can't bring myself to look at again (knowing that you have depression, and seeing the effect of that in black and white staring at you are two very different things) or crying and screaming into my pillow, knowing that I have to lie to everyone again. To tell people that the reason I didn't answer the phone or meet them where I was supposed to is so far from the truth it's comical, because I still can't get the courage to just say, I'm sorry I ditched you, I have depression, and I had an episode, and I couldn't get off my bed, and I was scared, and I knew that if I tried to get there I'd have made a really stupid mistake. And I'm sorry, I didn't want this to happen. I didn't mean for this to happen please don't be mad, please. And because of this, I lie. I hate it. The last casualty of my fucked up mind was me missing my big sister's College Graduation. I still can't bring myself to tell her that I wasn't laying on my bathroom floor all day because I was sick, but because I couldn't breath and couldn't stop throwing up or shaking long enough to call, because I had a panic attack. And that the reason I didn't tell her till two days later is because I kept knocking myself out with NyQuil every time I woke up because it hurt to think. I'm not proud of it. And I hate it. So I'm gonna spend this year trying to change it. Hopefully.

As you can see, nine months and two major breakdowns later, I didn't manage to change anything. And Shelby? She still doesn't know. Which is probably why I have at least one of my ulcers honestly.
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