MOVED TO ABREACTION.

Goo Goo Dolls song, Give A Little Bit. It makes me feel so happy.

Man, this is so weird! I only just realized this like, three days ago, and it's been haunting me ever since. Is this one of things I need to be talking about to exorcise? I really hope not, 'cuz uh, it's kinda... wow. Just weird.

I'm actually very, very happy. o__o I can't think of a way to say this without it sounding lame. It's just, wow. I'm not insanely low then high for a minute. I'm not even insanely low. Even in my non-fakehigh moods I'm just normal. Like, stable. It's the kinda mood where it can rain and it'll be like, oh, okay, it's raining, I think I'm gonna sing a little now, as opposed to my previous, "It's raining. Why can't it be a fucking storm? [insert wild and crazy thoughts of getting struck by lightning/slipping and smashing my head on the pavement here]".

It just occurred to me... I'm not suicidal anymore. God, I was suicidal. I didn't even realize it when I was! I can still remember it though: constant thoughts of death, wishing there was an easy way out, wanting to just cut and let me be over and done with. It seems so far away. Wow. How did I let myself get in that deep? I always thought I'd be one of those people who'd go running for help soon as I ever got that bad, but hey, there ya go. I really don't know myself. Funny how that used to be such a big issue for me. Now it's just like, oh well, hey stranger, you're looking mighty ugly today. Then I'd just wink back and go, "Not so hot yourself, kid," and... I dunno. Not be unhappy.

It's even weirder when you hear all these stories about people who 'got help' and pulled themselves out. People who went to their friends, or family or school counsellors or whatever. Me, I had too much fear. Too much pride. I pretty much did it myself... me and this journal here. If absolute truth be told, I'm not proud of it. It's... well, embarassing. It makes me wonder. Was I even really depressed? Looking back on it now I'd say, yeah, yes I was. I'd never been so low for such a long time in my life. But if I could pull myself together and will myself better, then... was I just making a big show of myself? Why would I do that? Do I take some sort of masochistic pleasure in making myself upset?

... You know the scary thing about that? I think that yeah, yes I do. I love crying. When I'm by myself, I mean. I love feeling infinitely sad and like my heart's about to puncture and explode and like I'm choking and the cool trickle of tears sliding down my face. I-- heh, this is gonna sound so silly, but I used to fantasize dying when I was younger. When I was miserable with Carol. Just to make myself cry, because I'd think that my parents wouldn't care. I'd fantasize that my parents died so I could make myself cry. When I got older and Carol got fired, these changed to just me berating myself nightly. Stupid, useless, fat, anti-social (I realize now that that is totally the wrong word for it), anything to, y'know, get that tugging feeling.

I dunno. I'm just really weirded out right now. Shit. Suicidal. Shoot me, I'm naive, I never thought it'd happen to me. It just seems so freaky, 'cuz now I can't make myself upset even if I bust a freakin' gut trying.

I'm sorry. I must sound really stupid and braggy. I don't mean to. Serious. May God strike me down on my little blaspheming atheist head if I lie. It's just. Weird.

The thing I most regret about my fiction-writing days was the terrible way in which I described things. Now that I'm older and two years past writing, it's hit me as to why I like slash so much. It's not the sex, God forbid, although admittedly I do like lemons a lot more now, when there's very little of it and/or it's very hot, with minimal descriptions of throbbing veiny members and the like. Those always make me throw up. No, it's the kissing, and the awkwardness and sometimes just how natural the relationship is. It's... I can't explain it, but there's this huge difference between the way I write and the way that others write. Their's is so fluid and descriptive and leaves readers filling in the blanks, but those are like tiny little pinpricks of blanks. Me, my writing is very scientific, explaining everything down to nitty gritty detail; why they went to the garden, why so and so has red hair. It's not necessary, it really isn't.

And man, I really do hate myself for falling into one of the common traps fiction-writing fangirls fall into. Complete and blatant idolizing. The thing I find more attractive about characters is when they're written with all their faults, and I don't mean swearing and death and darkness and gloom, 'cuz that's all behind me now. I mean the kissing, romantic scenes, where the author reminds us that yes, these are the characters we know and love and place on a pedestal above everyone else, but these characters aren't gods. Their mouths don't fit perfectly, they're awkwardly clumsy, they don't all taste of sugar and cinnamon, they cut their tongues on their partner's braces and wind up with the stray bits of rice from sushi trapped there in their mouths. They're human. And like, it's not like I have yards of experience from giving tongue (cuz, I mean, ew), but I'd imagine it to not taste of strawberries and chocolate and whatever else is sweet. I'd imagine it to be wet and breathy and not to be clean and perfect; whoever heard of a clean, dry tonguefuck? I love stories where they keep it real (well, as real as slash fanfiction can get) and the characters taste of toothpaste or cheese or the tangy flavor you get in your mouth late at night before brushing your teeth. I love it when characters' thoughts aren't perfectly intelligible (with perhaps the exception of Tim Drake/Bruce, 'cuz yeah, I agree with the writers; they're complete freaks)-- I mean, what person who has ever been kissed by someone they didn't know liked them kissed back while thinking, Goodness, this is interesting, when did this happen? But then again, maybe I should have noticed before. It really was glaringly obvious. It's more like, what, shit, God, just complete incoherency. (Incidentally... there are two fantastic Tim/Kon stories that I love, both by different writers but with similar plotlines-- Tim dresses up and they both somehow end up shagging. Kon's mental reaction just blows my mind. It's so perfect.)

Another thing I like (and this is where I fell straight into my science-girl-writer trench) is when writers do their research properly. Batman/Nightwing slash: Batman goes to fight Poison Ivy, tells Nightwing to look out for a certain plant, calls it by its scientific name. Nightwing, he just calls it a big venus flytrap. Robin on the other hand? Definitely scientific name. The thing that really irks me is when people write and unconsciously portray the characters with expertise as rookies. Batman looks at guano, he says it's guano. He doesn't say bat droppings. Thankfully I never fell into this trap (I always over-scienced it); it really helps to define a character. Use a scientific name, contrast him with the character with the one using casual lingo. One's more professional, the other's more carefree. This doesn't have any relation with slash anymore but I really don't care.

It's been two days of my trying to start my Psychology homework. So far I have three lines. It's an impressive amount of work, as anyone who's ever seen me try and fight my willpower will know. The fanfiction screams my name.

edit: One other thing I like about slashfic is when the characters completely lose their inhibitions. It's a pervy thing, but I hate hate hate those where the one character is wide-eyed and scared and pushing the other guy away. Because it's not romantic anymore, it's like rape.

Gotta commend these writers on keeping their characters pretty IC. Wally is so impulsive it's cute and Bruce is so grim and broodish it's... cute. XD

I love Abandoned Pools. They are kickass.

I have been in the oddest of moods recently. Rachel has left the emotional rollercoaster and boarded the S.S.Saint Joy. Be warned, the weather looks bad and the sea is choppy. Expect rapidfire turbulence (haha, airplanes).

S'better than rollercoasters though. *shrugs* They were pretty crappy ones. Most of them just flatlined at the bottom. PMS is a bitch. 'Specially when it's badly mistimed. My uterus lacks ketchup. Well, it does, but it's still in a solid form (somehow-- I really don't want to know how one can solidify ketchup) and has yet to jellify.

Oh, but I have made progress since I last whinged in here. I have finally accepted the fact that, out of a whole list of people I know, I am so far down I almost don't exist. Mostly it's just stuff about, y'know, my hobbies, my dislikes, my feelings about things, girl/guy stuff. It's okay, now. I mean, why really bother looking for myself? I don't need to know who I am. Just have my memory and I'll be okay.

I've been pretty down regarding social stuff... but it's crap, really, just insecure whining. Nothing new. I'm close on giving up on trying to be social, as I am really, really shit at it. Hell, I annoy myself.

I have badly misplaced anger. I would very much like to have anger counseling (no, seriously) so I refrain from exploding at friends. I don't enjoy getting angry at friends and it gives me the greatest sense of guilt, that I just shot off my temper at this completely unincluded person. I apologized profusely to Alice this short break about it. Luckily she didn't seem to notice, though I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or no. Methinks my fault is, not only am I short-tempered, but I am also a flaming pessimist. I tackle one, my life looks much better. I don't have time to tackle it though, so, meh.

Man, I cannot believe some of the lies I've been hearing spurt out of my mouth! It's incredible. Worse yet is that people believe me. I'm such a terribly good liar! I should be a lawyer, mayhaps. Have any of you seen the thing with Carrey; Liar Liar, I believe it's called?

I'm starting to believe there's no such thing as romantic love. Just platonic, and the odd flare of mad crushingness. I can always tell whether I'm crushing on someone or whether I actually love them-- if I have a crush, I can stop it. Easily. I tell myself constantly that I hate them, and the crush dies. Love... well, okay, truth be told, I've never been, really. So meh. Platonicism's with my family though, dur. My immediate family; the others aren't really that important to me, save for perhaps Auntie Julie, even though she doesn't like me anymore now that I'm big and ugly and fat and unfunny. I cannot love my friends. People say, "I love so and so", but I can't. Not much to love, really. I'm a really horrible person; I use people. I'll say it louder: I USE PEOPLE. I'll admit it. I've even more so than others, I'd go so far to say. Hope that turns all friends off from me.

Come to think about it... doesn't everyone, to an extent? I mean, once a friend turns PMSy, nobody cares about them anymore. There's no, "What's wrong?", and if there is and the person says nothing, nobody asks if they wanna talk about it. (To be fair though, if someone asked me that I'd politely tell them to piss off.)

I have been fighting the strangest urge these past few weeks. Not to die, not so extreme, but to draw butterflies on my arms with pins. Not really 'urge', more like 'fantasy'. Please don't tell me it's stupid, it is. 'Tis why I haven't done it. :) It's not something to be proud of, I'm just saying it's not like I'm one of those "OMGZ I'M SO DEPRESZED WNA CUT NOW" people.

My knee is humping the table. WANK IT LIKE IT'S HOT.

... ever since I left. I'm quite tempted to return, really.

Am really only here to perv. Over the months I've been thinking that maybe I'm not bi, I'm straight. Haven't been mad over any girls recently, but then again, haven't exactly been mad over any boys either.

Got online today, opened today's Elijah and Azuu, was EEK over Azuu's mom. Y'know how weird that is? When I perv over comic characters they tend to be male. And she looks the same as Azuu, but prettier, somehow. So, okay, methinks, so I mess around a bit then go to Sunday's Powerpuff Girls doujinshi and just about die. I love Bleedman's renderings of Deedee. She is just. So. Eek. *pervs and worships* 'Sides, as Dallface knows, I just love high-riding leggings/socks/whateverthefuck and those frilly dresses. The lower half, anyway.

And the arms and the rose and the hair and the EEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Just *SQUEAL*.

I want to print that picture out and huggle it every day. Ee.

I love. Azuu's mom's. Bra. Ee.

Such a weird day today. PMS. Down. Usual shitty school-induced misery. Am so high now though. Got Valentine's letters from me two best netmates, Taz and Dalls. Dallas, tell me when my letter gets over, 'kay? I'm annoyed that it still hasn't arrived yet. I need to go kill the Sydney post. Taz? Love you. Dam sum. E-mail me when the doctor gives the results, okay? =\

Sleep.

All I want is to have some peace to practice my ToK. It is not long, it is only five minutes. I like to practice in peace, so that nobody asks me questions and I have silence to figure it out. I do not need you bitching at me simply because I want peace. I tell you I'll call you when I'm done; you storm away and tell me not to bother. Fuck you. FUCK YOU. I'm not trying to make you unhappy. Your unhappiness affects me. I want peace, five fucking minutes, that's all. Fuck you for making me feel guilty, fuck you for making me feel useless and insecure. I am not being unreasonable in asking you to wait; this is my room. Mine, not yours, so just WAIT. I hate you for making me feel like I always need to please you; fuck you for making me cry. Fuck me for being weak.

It's 2:30am and still technically Sunday. I've just eaten a plate of incense ash, and I really don't know why. It tasted nice though. Crumbly like Viennese biscuits in M&S; sorta waxy, lipstick-like, but salty. I would say like tears, but that's incredibly cliche, with that diagonal thing along the top.

God fucking damn it. I want to cry. I don't have a reason. I just do. And I can't. It's like a fucking lump caught in my chest that won't come up. I feel so full of love and hatred, and it's so undirected and raw and I just want to let it all go. I don't even have a reason for those two emotions either. God, I want a Panadol. Why am I such a drama queen? Why do I have such a fucking big need for attention? Fucking wanker. I don't want to lie anymore. I wish I could crack myself open like a peanut, all the way along the ribs, and show everyone my lies. I'm trying to be honest now, I am. I've stopped lying. I'm lying already.

I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. Why am I awake at 2:30 in the morning? I feel so stupid. I feel I feel I feel! FUCK IT. Don't I have other vocabulary, or did that shrivel away with my IQ? I can't live, I'm a waste. I'm so worthless, I do nothing, I'm an eyesore, a fortunate car crash. I don't have the right to be like this-- I'm not sick, I'm not, I'm a wannabe, that's what I am. I've found myself, wannabe, wannabe Rachel. I want to be sick. I want to be ill, so I have an excuse, I can be me, I can be bitchy and snarky and get away with it. I'm not sick, my excuse is lame. I have to stop doing this! I have to stop pulling other people into my messes. They're mine. Don't talk to anyone about them, don't, they won't understand, you don't understand, you don't know you, how can you talk about yourself? You feel self-conscious and want to hit yourself soon as you open your big trap. You can't talk. Paralyze yourself. Shut up, bigmouth. Chatterbox, airhead... God, I'm so stupid. I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore nowadays. I want to be deep, I want to talk about subjects that are controversial, I want to argue, I want to reassure myself that I am smart because I always feel smart after a debate. I wish I were something... I wish I'd stop crying, I'm so fucking fake, I fake myself. I tell myself I'm sad and I believe it.

Okay. Wait. I haven't lost me. I'll find me. I'm... paranoid. Very slightly. I don't like open doors in the house, I don't like parents looking at my stuff for fear they'll find out something I don't even know of. I lack ambition-- my life is aimless. I like art and I like reading. I like Biology, though not as a life-long thing. I am superficial, airheaded. I am thoroughly self-centered, but want to give. I try listen to others, but I wave them away when I'm in a rush. In the mornings I am an utter bitch when I have homework. I am selfish and greedy. I'm highly envious. I like attention and will do anything to get some. I have crazed episodes in which I feel like I'm flying and detached, and I get sad because I wish I wasn't born, and the only way to remedy that is death, which I don't want because I care. I care for my family, even though it's only held together with sellotape. I don't want them to ache after me. I don't feel like they're my family. I know them; I call them mom and dad, and I love them, but nothing else. They're not my friends. They're mandatory, and I hate myself for thinking that but it's true. I'm lucky I have parents. I'm selfish, I take them for granted. I feel distant from them, my family, my brother, everything. When I'm with them or my friends I know who they are and who I am doesn't matter. When I'm alone... I forget who they are. Debbie, Willbe, Dallas, whoever, I know they're real and I know their names but I can't remember their faces. I float far enough and they don't seem real anymore, and I made them up. I feel so terrible, and I post up some self-pitying shit on my SN and lo and behold, someone IMs me and my mood goes. Some of the time. It doesn't matter what they say to me; a simple "Yo" has the power to make me feel happy. Because I'm no longer alone, I'm linked.

I hate this. It's so plastic. I'm not having an identity crisis; I'm not. I'm fine. Leave me be. I'm very happy; my mind thinks it's sad.

God, I feel stoned. What I would't give to creep out of my house right now and dance a little barefoot on the pebbles outside.

Goodnight.

I'm obese. My mother has told me I have gained weight, and I am tired of arguing. I am too tired to change. Rings of fat rim my stomach like thickened hula hoops on a stick. My legs are chopstick-like, with a tree-trunk thick base, my feet are large and veiny. My knees are knobbly, I have seven unevenly shaped freckles spread across my right arm. My left breast is far larger than my right, and I feel unbalanced. My face is long yet round, my neck too long to make me look normal. Car tire rings of fat circle my neck as well. They're choking me, I don't want to breathe. My mind feel broken. I am adolescent, I am sixteen, I do not know what I am. I am lost, I am finding me, I am looking in the darkest corners of my room, I am finding the elusive Rachel. The Rachel who is confident and self-assured, who is sixteen and knows it and acts it, the Rachel who is smart without being spastically stressed at the slightest mention of work. The Rachel who does not look for excuses. Rachel is not depressed, Rachel does not suffer from personality disorders. Rachel is a wannabe, a hack, pathetic, small. Rachel feels gay and wants to tell the world.

Rachel is lost. Who is Rachel? Rachel can't be her name; it belongs to someone beautiful, tall, sociable. She is short and ugly and perpetually moody. Rachel does not want to die. She does not want to die; she is scared. She hates it. She doesn't want to be scared. She can't find the purpose to her life. She can't find meaning; every day is the same, a rewind and repeat spiralling down and down until the VCR is broken. She can't find the magic, she doesn't believe. She used to believe. She wants magic. She's searching and cannot find it. She wants the imagination; she wants her fake utopia. Incense burns in her face and she chokes on the smoke. She feels dizzy. She thinks she'll sleep.

She wants to write a story.

Apparently, the best form of therapy for me is humanistic.

Which is hilarious, as I hate the idea of sitting next to someone who does nothing but nod and agree with you. It'd drive me insane. Yes, I like people agreeing with me, but I also like arguing. Structured arguments; I can't stand it when the other person starts screeching like I've offended them (*cough*Sonia*cough*) or if the person refuses to back down and is adamant about them being correct (*COUGHCOUGHCOUGH*).

I ain't going to no therapist anyhow.

I'm in and out of astral planes
The sliding doors I break the panes
I know it's strange so are you brave enough

Alright, like a quarterback I score
I'm the one they all adore
But I can't find what I'm looking for

I don't need your
I don't need it
I don't need your mercy kiss
-- Abandoned Pools - Mercy Kiss

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