10.50pm: I’m so angry and worked up I can’t even write anything coherent. It just becomes this big angry jumble of words when I try and explain why I’m feeling like this. Even worse than usual. My vodka is looking so tempting.
No Gem, alcohol does not fix your problems. It merely makes you write blog posts that you don’t remember writing but find weeks later and even though you can’t remember writing it, you read it superfast in your head, just the way you say it was in your head at the time.
12.10am
FOR FUCKS’ SAKE. I’ve spent over an hour trying to write this out. So screw it. It’s not going to make sense. It’s not going to be paragraphed. It may not even be full sentences. But that’s okay. Because anyone who has a problem with it CAN GO PLAY IN TRAFFIC.
I can’t believe I still let them get to me so much.
Where has my tolerance gone?
I need to find it quickly. They’re both home all holidays. Or maybe I just need to get out of here. It’s just not realistic for me to get out for the whole holidays. But as much as poss will have to do.
They wouldn’t shut up. They wouldn’t stop asking questions. I felt trapped, I couldn’t think. My sister was spouting on about nothing important. My mum, trying to find out what I’d been up to. Me, trying to do some chemistry. I thought it was fucking obvious I was in the middle of something.
Then with the orders. Do this. Do that. Tidy that up. Don’t forget you’re doing dinner. What time’s dinner. WHEN I COOK IT.
On and on and on.
In response to my sudden quietness and lack of responses “How are you feeling? Are you sick?”
No mother. Wait, yes. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of being talked at. I’m sick of Courtney thinking the world revolves around her. I’m sick of you telling me what to do all the time. I’m sick of you being the only one that matters when you’re in a bad mood. I’m sick of you not noticing that I want to smash a wall in or burst into tears.
Angrier and angrier.
To the point where my reflection looks empty.
I’m scared.
I’m falling back into old habits.
Connecting the wrong emotions with each other.
Dealing with them the wrong way.
I’m angry at them but I’m angry at me.
I’m angry at them but I want to take it out on me.
I know I shouldn’t. I can see all the reasons why. I can see how it doesn’t help. I can see it’s wrong. But I’m still going too. I’ve tried everything else tonight. It’s not working. I just want the anger to go. It’s not like anyone will notice if I cut anyway. I mean hell look how long I’ve gotten away with it. Maybe it’s just me, but it looks so obvious, I feel like my parents’ can’t have not noticed. But then it was planned so the scars looked somewhat random. Maybe I’m just too good at the art of hiding and secrets.
I thought things were getting better. I don’t want my mum to go back to treating me like she did before. I can’t take it.
I’m 18 years old. You can’t treat me like a little kid anymore.
I need my space. I need for you all to leave me alone.
It’s not messy. I can’t help that there’s nowhere to put it all.
Don’t fucking complain that we spent more than our budget on groceries if you didn’t bloody tell us there was a budget we were shopping too.
You can shut up too, Miss I’ll-do-the-shopping-and-stick-to-the-budget and don’t tell me that you can’t even see anything new in the cupboards.
Don’t make it my fault that it cost more than you thought it would.
Don’t tell me that there’s piss all money.
Don’t complain about the credit card bill. It was your fucking idea to go to invercargill for christmas. I don’t even want to go. Refund my tickets. I’ll go spend christmas somewhere else.
Stop stressing about everything in front of me. Screw your heads on and act like my parents. Like you can control things. Like you actually know everything. Like you’re invincable.
Because if you’re not. Then who is? Who am I meant to look up to? Who is meant to teach me how to deal with this whirlwind of emotions that I don’t know why I’m feeling.
For once could you please side with me not her.
Don’t try and make me feel guilty for not seeing Gango. You didn’t exactly invite me to come. And I spent far too many years seeing him every weekend and missing out on other things.
Don’t talk to me like I don’t know anything. You’d be suprised.
Make everything okay. Make me happy. Tell me life gets better. Tell me there is hope. Tell me things will change. Help me.
Please.
I’m 18. I’m meant to be dependant. I’m meant to be almost grown up. But I don’t want to know about any of it. I don’t want to know about money. Or jobs. Or the Swine Flu deaths. Or car accidents. I don’t want to be responsible and look after myself. Because I don’t think I can. I’m a mess. The only thing keeping me safe is fear. Fear of being found out. Fear of disappointing my parents. Fear of them hating me.
I don’t want to die. But living isn’t much fun either. What am I meant to do?
I sometimes wonder how helpful blogging about any of this stuff is. But hey. At least it’s one way of getting it out. And I always do feel that little bit better. Like I don’t have to sit there thinking about what I would say. Yes, I’m so weird that I will plan blog posts in my head way before I even write them or get on the laptop.
This one wasn’t planned. It just came out. Oops.
